A/n: Sorry for the long wait, my muse ran away.

Everything was white, blurry and somehow surreal. Maybe he had secretly died and was waiting to move on. If that was true then he felt relief. No more torture, no more pain, no more Moriarty. It also meant no more John.

The white light got brighter and brighter until -

Sherlock woke up, his eyes squinting against the light that was now flooding into the room. What the fuck was going on? He pushed his head into the pillow, his eyes now burning and raw. Was this another game?

"Morning Sleepyhead! ... I was going to nudge you awake but well, this was a better idea. I have a special ahhh - task for you to do today. If you refuse, someone will die."

The light was shut off and Sherlock lifted his head slowly, his eyes still seeing weird patterns against the wall. He pushed himself into a sitting position and was surprised to find himself uncuffed. Rubbing his eyes, he stared around the room, taking in everything and anything. The broken TV was gone, replaced with an even bigger one. Speakers were placed in each of the four corners and a new chair sat in the middle of the room.

The door slid open and Moriarty walked in, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Sherlock.

"You look like shit," he said, grinning, "Are you ready?"

Was he ready? He could barely move let alone get up and do whatever the hell Moriarty wanted him to do. His mouth was now so dry that he grew numb to it, his back was aching and his arms and legs felt as though they were no longer attached to his body. Was he ready?

He got up slowly, using the headboard as support, and stumbled over to Moriarty. His head was killing and he desperately needed to pee. His mind wandered back to John and he hoped that, wherever he was, that he was okay. If being in here meant that John was safe then he had no regrets.

Moriarty pointed to the chair and Sherlock sat down, his eyes narrowing. Was he merely watching something? He had half expected to be leaving the room, or at least half hoped that he would be leaving. He stared at the blank screen, his back now aching even more, and waited for Moriarty to continue.

The TV flicked on, revealing an empty field. Well partly empty. In one corner stood two horses, both of them were saddled. Sherlock turned away from the screen and eyed Moriarty suspiciously.

"I don't get it," he muttered.

"Oh, you will, keep watching."

Sherlock turned back to the screen and felt his jaw drop. Two men were being walked into view, two very familiar men. How did Moriarty get hold of Lestrade and Dimmock? He watched as two of Moriarty's men walked in carrying some rope and instructed them to sit on the field.

"Do you get it yet? Horses... Rope... Put it together."

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"Well, let me enlighten you. Choose one, either Lestrade or Dimmock."

"What for?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Just choose, or I shoot them both in the head."

Sherlock fell silent staring at the screen, his mind working fast. How do you choose something like that? One of them was going to die, he could feel it. He watched as they huddled close to each other, fear etched on both of their faces. They knew it too.

He wanted Lestrade to be safe, he knew the guy for 5 years, of course he would choose him. But still, he didn't want to be responsible for an innocent mans death. He didn't know Dimmock well, but he still didn't deserve this. None of them did.

He swallowed, the words catching in his throat, and said, "Lestrade, I choose Lestrade."

"Good choice!" Moriarty said, laughing. He pulled out a phone and muttered, "Tie him up."

Sherlock watched as one of Moriarty's men grabbed Dimmock and pulled him to his feet. The other man then joined him and they both attached the rope to Dimmock's wrists, making sure it was tight. Suddenly everything clicked into place and Sherlock turned away, cursing under his breath.

"You can't... Just shoot him, don't do that..." His voice was croaky, desperate, and he wanted it all to stop. How many more would die because of him?

"Where's the fun in shooting him? Would be over too quickly, nah this is much better." He walked towards the TV and turned up the volume.

Sherlock stared the screen, his heart beating rapidly, as each of the men mounted a horse, both of them still holding onto the rope. Dimmock was now struggling furiously, his face pale, and Sherlock couldn't watch anymore. He buried his face in his hands and tried to drown out the sounds of Lestrade's cry and Dimmock's struggling. Why wasn't Lestrade helping? They were meant to be friends after all.

"Oh, the D.I can't move," Moriarty said, smiling, "He has four snipers on him. He's watching all of this, just like you are."

"Are you going to kill him?" Sherlock growled, "Greg? Are you going to kill him? You can't let him go, not after seeing this."

Moriarty shook his head, "No... I don't know what I'm going to do with him yet. Maybe I'll kill him after all, now shush." He turned back towards the TV, holding his phone to one ear, and said, "Now."

The two men hit the horses, causing them to run in opposite directions and Sherlock buried his face tighter in his hands, his mind desperately trying to ignore the sounds. It was coming closer and closer until -

The TV shut off and Moriarty's face fell.

"What the?" He muttered, pressing buttons in frustration, "Dammit! I will skin whoever sold me this piece of crap." He kicked the TV and walked out of the room, not bothering to look back at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't move. Even though the TV was off, it still happened. Dimmock was still dead, and Greg was probably being tortured somewhere. Maybe if he killed himself it would all stop.

He got up and walked over to the TV, picking up the control. Turning it over in his fingers he thought about John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Three people who trusted him, who gave him a chance, and who he had let down. He took a deep breath and smashed the control onto the floor, causing it to splinter and fall apart. Quickly, he picked up a shard of plastic and studied it. It was sharp, it could do serious damage.

Lifting up his shirt, he stared at his pale body. Lack of food showed up, his ribs were easily visible and he had cuts and bruises all over his stomach. Nothing seemed to be healing, it was as though his body had given up. He didn't need it, it was, after all, merely transport.

Without another thought he dragged the shard across his stomach, not even wincing at the pain. He felt blackness consume him and welcomed it's grip. No one else would die, not for him. He was ending this.