'Sherlock, please.' John's voice was hoarse, 'I can't bear to lose you again.'

'I promise I'll get this over with as soon as possible.'

'But, after what happened last time...' His voice trailed off.

'No. People will die, John. If I don't do this, Moriarty will keep killing just to spite me.'

'People will die if you do, Sherlock.' Lestrade entered the tent to voice his concerns, 'You remember last time. The old woman, dead. The other's, mentally scarred for life.'

'Lestrade, I appreciate your concern, but really. This is my decision to make.'

'No Sherlock! It is not your decision. This is a police matter, I bend the rules for you to be here, I can have you arrested whenever I please.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John spoke next, 'You two, please. Get along, we can't afford you two falling out right now. But really Sherlock, you must take other people into consideration. This isn't just about you, like Greg said, people can and will get hurt.'

'You don't understand! Use your brain for once! Moriarty will, without a doubt, kill others! It is inevitable that people will die. Surely it is best to try and catch him, so those lives are not wasted. This is such a good opportunity!'

'You selfish bastard, all you think about is your ego! You only want to solve this case to avert boredom. When will you learn to care about others, you selfish, sociopathic bastard!' John was fuming.

Lestrade was clearly shocked by John's outburst. Nobody had ever seen him quite that angry before.

Sherlock looked genuinely hurt, 'John, please...I didn't mean it in that way, I...' John began to walk out of the tent, 'No...John...please don't, please don't leave...' Sherlock's voice trailed off; he had already left.

'I'll...give you a moment.' Lestrade left too, leaving Sherlock alone.

As soon as John saw Sherlock's face, he started to regret what he had said. It was just like before, when he had told Sherlock that he didn't want people mistaking them for a couple, except worse. He knew he couldn't go back to the crime scene, so he decided to grab some lunch. He was actually quite hungry, since he had skipped breakfast in the rush to get here. Walking through the town centre, John stopped into a M&S to grab a sandwich and a can of coke. He was feeling bloody dreadful after upsetting Sherlock so badly, perhaps ruining their friendship for good.

John walked into a small park and sat down at a bench, eating his sandwiches and drinking his coke. All he could think about was Sherlock. He knew, deep down that he didn't really care too much about the many people who could die as a result of the game. Well, he did care, but he was much more concerned about Sherlock. Ever since the pool, ever since he pushed Sherlock into the water, all those long, sleepless nights by his hospital bed, it was like a living hell. He didn't want a repeat of that.

As soon as he finished his meal, John made the decision to return to the crime scene and tell Sherlock he was sorry. 'Even if he's angry with me, I can't bare to lose him, not again. I don't want him to think our friendship is ruined. Not now, not when he needs me the most.'

He never made it back to the fairground.

Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of person to be easily offended. He never seemed to give a shit when Donovan called him 'freak' or people told him to 'piss off', but when John called him a sociopathic bastard, the words hurt more than they should've. The one person who put up with him, the one person who cared about him, the one person he...loved? No, he was incapable of such feelings...wasn't he?, the one true friend that Sherlock Holmes had, slagging him off like that. The rational side of Sherlock told him that John was angry, it was a heat of the moment thing, that it was obvious that he regretted what he said as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but Sherlock wasn't listening to his rational side anymore. He was feeling so many powerful emotions, love, anger, sadness, fear, each one pulling him in the same direction, giving him the same thought 'John, I must find John and tell him that I'm sorry, that he means more to me than any case, any puzzle, anyone.'

When Sherlock reached the park that he deduced John to be in, he found the one person there he most certainly did not want to see: Mori-bloody-arty, sitting at a small table. It was been made up good and proper, with a tablecloth, vase of flowers and two cups of tea.

A devilish smile stretched across his lips, Moriarty motioned to a vacant chair across from him, 'Sherlock! What a pleasant surprise.'

'What do you want?' Sherlock spoke in monotone, already fearing the worst. There was blood on the ground under the table; he could smell it. The grass was messed up, clumps missing, suggesting that something (or someone) had been dragged across it. He dragged his foot along the ground, and felt something. Rectangular, not very big; about 6 or so centimetres wide. A phone. John's phone. 'Oh god. I was too late. They've got John.'

Rage boiled within Sherlock. He stood up, lent across the table and pulled his gun on Moriarty.

'Tell me where he is.' He struggled to keep his voice level.

Another devilish grin, 'I'm not tell-ling~' His sing-song voice only added to Sherlock's anger.

'I will shoot you.'

'Oh no you won't. Because, I have John. And I will shoot John, if you shoot me.'

'Fuck.'

'You can get him back, if you're lucky.'

'How?'

'Come to my tea party.'

'How do I get there?'

He laughed, 'Follow me.'