P.S. I would like to wish everyone a very happy Christmas! DFTBA ^-^

John opened his eyes and winced at the bright lights surrounding him. He twisted his hands behind them and found that he was bound with rope to a chair, the coarse fibres rubbing his skin raw. He vaguely remembered realising this earlier. He also remembered a giggling and a man.

And Sherlock.

"Sherlock?!" Silence. "Sherlock?" John shuffled the chair round in a circle, searching the warehouse for a sign of life. Nothing. Just stage lights, beaming down on him and the steel rafters above him, the ribs of a giant skeleton. The huge doors were closed behind him. John stared outwards into the warehouse. The light which bathed him stopped a few metres short of the far wall. "Sherlock?"

"He's not awake yet."

John froze and felt someone's hand graze the back of his neck and grasp the wooden back of the chair. "He's still fast asleep, bless him." The chair spun round, and John saw a madman grinning back at him.

There was no other way to describe him. He was skinny and gaunt, with wild black hair and darting eyes. There was a lopsided grin on his face and his cheek was marred with a fresh white scar. The man caught John staring and he giggled. "You like it?"

John said nothing and the man's hand shot out and held his cheeks. "I asked you a question," he growled.

"Yes, very nice," John said as best he could. His heart was pounding in his chest and his leg twinged uneasily. His neck hurt as well, and he wondered what had happened.

The man relaxed his grip on his face and gave him a pat on the cheek with a rough, calloused hand. "Good boy, good boy, I thought it was a pleasant accessory to my face, don't you think? I did it myself, after he told me it would look more menacing...now, how are you feeling?"

John's eyes widened and he looked at the man incredulously. "How am I...Are you freaking serious?"

"Oh, yes. I'm always serious."

"Well, in that case, I'm not good. 1 gold star for you."

The man laughed and held out his hand, as if wanting John to shake it. "I'm The Spider. The Spider at the centre of the web. Get it? I'M IN CONTROL, BUDDY! I'M IN CONTROL!" The man burst into hysterical laughter and John shrunk back in his chair. He was mad. Mental. Crazy as a bag of cats. Sherlock knew what he was talking about when he said the man went insane with grief.

The thought brought John back, and he let out a small, feeble cough. "Where's Sherlock?"

The Spider frowned, his forehead creasing. He was still smiling though, giving a grotesque impression of a clown - sad but grinning. John had never liked clowns. "He's sleeping. I told you, remember?"

"Where is he sleeping?"

"He's over there, but I don't want to start the story to early...no, he said that would be a bad idea. A very very bad idea. He said I had to bait you a bit first, ask you things. He's very clever you know, a different clever than I am."

John swallowed. "He? Who's 'he'?"

The Spider giggled again, the high-pitched laughter bouncing off the walls. "He told me not to tell you. It's more fun that way, he said." The man's chest suddenly puffed up with pride and he smiled. "He said I was inspirational. I gave him an idea for a crime, one he could use later, another fairytale. He was the one that told me about you, Doctor Watson. You and Sherlock. He admires you, I think. A bit. Not much. But a bit. He admires your friend a lot. But he said I could get rid of you for him. I'm doing him a favour."

Licking his thin lips, The Spider stepped backwards. "This is boring. I'm going to start the story now. He said I should wait for a while, but I did my waiting. Twelve years of it, stuck inside my own head, a prison of thoughts and ramblings. I know I'm insane. I know I'm crazy...but it's much more fun than being sane. I can't imagine what it's like in your funny little brains, all linear and rational. It must be so boring. Anyway, I...what's the word? Rigress?"

"Digress."

"Ah, yes, I digress. Make sure you're sitting comfortably..."

The Spider grinned manically and fumbled in his pocket. There was a click, and the section of darkness lit up, showing a single, slumped figure, tied to a chair. John jerked forward. "Sherlock?!"

"Shush, shush..." The Spider laid a finger on his lips and John fell silent. He didn't look armed, but the madness in his eyes scared John more than any weapon. "He's sleeping, sleeping like a baby. Poor lamb, hasn't been getting his rest. A tranquiliser helps. He was harder to hit than you. When he saw you go down, he tried to fight, bucking like a horse. Of course, I got him in the end, but he's a little...damaged."

John looked at Sherlock's prone, dead frame. Shadows curved around his face and swathed his shoulders like a blanket, but John could still see a cut down his cheek, dripping red blood down onto the floor. His lips were bright yellow, glinting in the light.

"What did you do to him?" John's voice was strong, level, but his hands were trembling behind the chair. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, nothing. Well, something, but all in good time. I'm going to untie you know, but you'd better not move, ok? I don't want to kill you before the story starts...it will muck up the ending."

John felt the barrel of a gun press up to his face and he stopped moving, stopped trembling, stopped breathing. The Spider giggled and leaned down on one knee, his black jeans brushing John's leg. How was he going to untie him, if one hand was busy?

The answer came quickly - there was a scrape of teeth against his wrists and without thinking, John writhed.

The Spider didn't say anything, just buried the gun deeper into John's temple and continued cutting the rope with his teeth. After what seemed like eternity, the coarse rope fell away from his wrists and then, after another eternity, his ankles, and The Spider stood up, not moving the weapon cocked in his hand. "When I say so, you're going to stand up. Three, two , one."

John stood up slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. "Good, good," The Spider cooed. "Together, we're going to walk towards your friend, and I'll tell you a story as we go, ok? Listen, though...YOU HAVE TO LISTEN!" The sudden screaming burned John's ears and The Spider erupted into hysterical laughter again. His breath smelled of burnt hair and sulphur. "Ok, ok, nice and slow, nice and slow..."

With a juddering breath, John stepped forward, feeling The Spider move with him, like they were a single entity, connected by the ebony barrel of the gun. They walked a few steps and then The Spider started talking again. "I think you know of The Frog Prince?"

John gave a tiny nod. If he opened his mouth he would scream or shout or swear.

"Good, good. Then you know about the golden ball, and the frog being a prince and then her kissing the prince etc..."

John nodded again.

"Well, that cuts down my speech. You see, Doctor Watson, I've been planning my revenge for a while now. Sherlock figured that out. Rapunzel locked away for six months and little Snow - I had my eye on her for a while. I knew their habits and their vices and I used my knowledge to catch them, to snare them like rabbits. But what for the finale? I needed something big and great for the finale...When I first started planning my revenge - revenge, you see, for my daughter. She died when she was young, so very young. They told me it was drugs, but they were lying. My Belle wouldn't do that, never would do that. But I digress...again. Anyway, he found me, and he helped me with the logistics and stuff. He was the one that told me about you, John. He gave me the idea...Oh, you're going to like it. YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE THIS!"

John kept walking, slow, painful steps as his pulse throbbed under his temple. Could he duck and run? No. The Spider would get him, and his leg, his damn leg...He couldn't lash out, The Spider's finger was on the trigger, holding it, stroking it, teasing it. He was trapped, a rabbit in a snare, just like the girls.

"Have you guessed yet? No? Let me explain. I've been watching Sherlock for a while and I've seen how he can change - from dead to alive in seconds. He changes shape...so he's the frog. The Prince in disguise. You, well, you sit and sit and sit and read and wonder, but you haven't acted on instinct for a while. You're locked in a tower of your own making, Doctor Watson. So, you're the Princess, with a little crown on your blond haired head. Have you guessed?"

"No."

The Spider giggled and eased John forward. They were only a few metres from Sherlock now, and his injuries were obvious. As well as the gash on his cheek, there were scrapes on his knuckles and bruises on his forehead. And his lips - they shone like stars, bright and glittering.

"Do you want me to tell you?"

John said nothing.

"To wake up your frog and to change him to a prince, you have to kiss him, just like in the fairytale. I know you're not G-A-Y, John, but I have poetic licence on my side, don't I? Yes, yes, yes, I do. Except, there's a catch. My own special cocktail is on his lips...I'm a bit a chemist and that stuff, that yellowy stuff on his lips, is a very nice, very dangerous poison. It will sink into Sherlock's skin eventually, and kill him. Gruesomely. It reacts slowly with Sherlock's salvia but with yours it will react violently, killing you very quickly indeed. You see? DO YOU SEE? Only one of you can live! It's a great story, and you get to decide the ending, John. It's all up to you. Do you save yourself, or do you save the genius? In other words...do you choose the head or the heart?"

The Spider giggled and bounced on his toes, excitement radiating from his body and his eyes twinkling, burning with energy. "It's a great idea, don't you think? I came up with it myself, with only a teeny bit of help from him. You get to choose, Doctor Watson." Grinning, The Spider stepped backwards, taking the gun off John's head. John felt this knees buckle with relief and his struggled to keep himself upright. The gun was still pointing at him, the trigger still halfway between life and death. "On you go, Doctor. On you go, choose now..."

With a fresh outburst of giggles, The Spider started to sing:

"The time has come, the spider said, to talk and see who cares

The heads or hearts, the psychopaths

Or the girl with golden hair...

The man with a crown, or the frog with a mind;

Which one will Dame John spare?

Finishing his song, The Spider laughed and jerked the gun towards John's face. "On you go, John. Choose! CHOOSE!" The last word was bellowed and John took a small step forward. "You have one minute, Doctor Watson, one minute before the poison starts to work and the tranquiliser wears off. Tick tock, tick tock..."

John held his breath, trembling and shaking. His mind was a storm cloud, raging and sparking and blocking his thoughts. He had to choose. But did he save himself, or Sherlock? He wanted to live, but he didn't want Sherlock to die. He wanted them both to live. But then again...

The world would never have another genius. They would never have a tall man in a trench coat stalking the streets, solving the crimes the police didn't touch. They would never have a saviour like him, not in a million years. But he was replaceable. He was disposable - Sherlock had made that clear with his snide comments. There were a thousand others like him, limping soldiers with trust issues and loyalties to mad, clever men. There was only one Sherlock.

"Tick tock, time's running out! Ten, nine, eight, seven, six-"

With sweating palms and shaking legs, John leaned forward and let his lips brush Sherlock's. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry.

At first, there was nothing, but then the burning started.

"Woop, wowee!" The Spider shouted as John fell to his knees, every nerve in his body screaming in agony. An inhuman sound was ripping the air, and it took a second for John to realise it was him. It was a wolf howling, a dog yelping, a cat hissing, all forced into one animalistic cry. The pain worsened as the poison spread through his veins, searing and sizzling every part of him and John screamed louder. The Spider's cheers of triumph faded, and the edges of his vision turned black. In front of him, there was movement, someone waking up and struggling against bonds, but he didn't notice. The poison was unfolding him and crumpling him, dipping him into acid and dissolving him. He felt the cold ground beneath his cheek and sharp nails raking his arms. His nails.

"I told you it reacted quickly...I told you, I told you!"

"John! JOHN!"

John lifted his head an inch off the ground, his teeth drawing blood as he bit his tongue. He wanted the burning to stop, anything to stop the burning. "JOHN!" Sherlock was staring at him, pleading silently with him. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so so sorry...

Another burst of pain.

Another cheer.

Another shout.

And then a gun shot.

The noise was distant and quiet, but John could still hear it through his howls of pain. There was a thump as a body hit the ground. Sherlock? A hand touched his and there was a pinch in his neck, tiny, barely noticeable. He was still burning, sizzling, cooking, all of his veins on fire and his heart about to be engulfed by flames. He wanted to the pain to stop so badly...death, unconsciousness, anything, anything to stop the agony. Please, please, please...

A final piercing cry and everything turned black.