A/n: Sorry for the late update. I haven't been in an angst mood recently so didn't like the chapter that much. Now I'm sat here, playing sad songs, and feeling in the right mood to write this.

Thank you for your reviews, alerts, fave's - it does mean a lot to me.

Warnings: Language, mainly.

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock.

Enjoy.

"My turn?"

Moriarty walked over and Sherlock tried to look as defiant as he could. It was hard though, he was handcuffed to a bed and had never felt as weak as this before. His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips, knowing that it was stupid, but not caring. He didn't even regret it when his lips felt tighter and his mouth began to burn.

"Yes, you can either beat the shit out of this TV, or I can beat the shit out of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as best as he could and rattled his handcuffs slightly to get Moriarty to uncuff him. When he was free he sat up slowly and rubbed his back, the cuffs made him lie in an awkward position causing his body to ache like a bitch.

He cracked his back, stretched his arms and stood up.

"Pole."

Moriarty smiled and handed him the metal pole. It was heavier than Sherlock thought - or maybe he was just really weak - and he stumbled slightly as Moriarty let go.

He swung the pole and felt himself fall forward, before the pole hit the TV and crashed through. Moriarty laughed and patted him on the back causing him to fall onto his knees. He dropped the pole - which rolled away with a loud clatter - and bowed his head. He couldn't do this anymore, he didn't have the fight nor the energy.

Moriarty grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up, "Well that was pathetic," he snarled and without another word he threw Sherlock as hard as he could against the bed. His head hit the hard wood and he let out a whimper before curling himself into a tight ball.

He heard Moriarty leave and felt himself shiver - either in pain or relief, he wasn't sure. After a few moments he was still shivering, and he lifted his head up slightly. His breath was crystallizing in front of him - Moriarty was cooling the room, rapidly. Sherlock pulled himself into a tighter ball, and let himself fall asleep knowing it could be the last thing he ever did. Death was better than this, surely?

He was back at the Manor. He must of been around seven years old in this dream, but he remembered it vividly. He and Mycroft were outside in the Sun, both of them on their backs, staring up at the clouds.

"Look, there's a cake," Mycroft grinned, pointing at a funny shaped cloud.

Sherlock giggled, "You and your cakes, My, that's obviously a deerstalker."

Mycroft turned to look at him, "How do you know what a deerstalker is?"

"Father has three, I wear them when he isn't looking," Sherlock replied, looking smug.

Mycroft smiled, "What about that one then?" he asked, pointing to another cloud.

"Hedgehog," Sherlock smirked.

"How does that look like a hedgehog?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before saying, "Look, My, there's the nose and there's the spikes. It's obviously a hedgehog."

They lay like that for hours - just pointing at random clouds and making fun suggestions. The Sun had set and the wind had picked up by the time they finally went inside, holding onto each other and giggling amongst themselves.

Sherlock turned over, jolting him awake. The room was now stupidly warm and it didn't take him long before he fell back asleep.

This time he was 11, and at a boarding school. He didn't want to be here, not on his own. No one liked him, and they thought his mind reading trick was creepy and unnatural.

One day, whilst he was outside, a group of boys a few years older than himself came over. They didn't say a word, just pounced on Sherlock and punched him all over. He screamed, he cried, but that only caused them to punch him harder. He shielded his eyes and prayed for it to be over soon.

Then a moment later one of the boys went flying backwards, shortly followed by the others. Sherlock spun around and saw Mycroft stood there looking furious. He was sweating and his hands were curled up into fists.

"Leave my brother alone, or I will kill all of you, one by one," he said quietly, his posture never changing.

The boys gave him one look and then ran off.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to his brother. Without a word he buried his face into Mycroft's neck and broke down.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, "I would do anything for you - die even, you're my brother and I love you."

Sherlock woke up, tears streaming down his face. Where was Mycroft now? Did he even care about him anymore? The room was now at normal temperature and Sherlock knew what was happening - This was another game, to mess with his head, and make it seem as though he was crazy.

Moriarty couldn't do anything to make Sherlock worse, he was already in physical and emotional pain. Moriarty even turned his own brother, and the people of Scotland Yard against him. What more could he do?

He wiped his eyes and lay back down, this time dreaming of John.