A/N Hi! Thank you for the reviews and follows. It gives me a lot of encouragement. Please enjoy this chapter and I'm kind of sorry for how it ends. Oh! And I would like to know if I'm going to fast, too slow or just right because I'm finding it hard to tell. So please send me a comment, it doesn't have to be big at all. Please read, review, favourite. I only own the plot, nothing else.

John and Sherlock wandered silently through the front door at around 4 o'clock in the morning, covered in sweat from running and very tired.

Going up to the bedroom, they sleepily made their way up the stairs, stumbling as if they were drunk.

In the bedroom John rummaged for some pyjama bottoms to give to Sherlock. Finding some the right size he threw them over his shoulder, grumbling for him to put them on.

Lazily John found his own Pjs and peeled off his sticky clothing, ignoring the looks from Sherlock, and slipped on his night clothes.

John glanced towards Sherlock. The boy was in the middle of getting dressed and in the dim glow of the room, he could just make out the mottled bruising of the boy's back contrasting with pale hue of the rest of his skin. In the dim light of the room, it looked as though he was a ghost.

Finally ready for bed, John caught Sherlock's eye, "You can sleep next to me if you like."

"I know." Sherlock said abruptly, his voice leaking with a fatigue.

Moving the covers to make space, John slid onto the bed and made room for Sherlock.

"Are you getting in or what?" John mumbled sleepily, looking over at Sherlock, whom wore a vacant expression.

Snapping out of it, he jumped into action and hurriedly got in the bed beside John.

"I was thinking about the body. And goodnight." Sherlock said as he turned over to put his back to John smiling.

Sherlock heard a faint reply, but he was enveloped by sleep before it was finished.

A gunshot whizzed past Sherlock's ear. And then another. Thoughts like lightening, he realised the shots were not aimed at him but rather someone ahead of him. Opening his eyes he saw a dead body. Nausea rising in his throat, he immediately recognised it as John.

The mutilations, in which covered the body in the morgue, now started to appear on John's lifeless body. First the lacerations piercing through the skin. Second the eye balls being replaced with dice. Third the face being burnt. And last the initials being carved into the body. But something was different. Something was wrong. John's initials were not there.

Crimson blood poured out of the lacerations of his body and he started to shake violently and convulse.

Sherlock watched as if tied to the spot. His innocent eyes were forced open by some imaginary force. Willing his eyes to look away, he tried to physically leave the scene- but he couldn't. Eyes crying for help, he mentally tried to tug at his bonds. Black tears poured down his cheeks, mapping a path down his body and landing in a lucid pool by his feet.

"Sherlock!" A voice called urgently from the sky.

The boy in question tried to look up, but he couldn't. Breathing out of control and his heart out of control he willed himself to wake up- but he couldn't.

The voice sounded again. But this time he started to shake.

Luckily the scene before him became foggier and foggier, the body becoming more obscure, until his eyes opened to see a worried John holding his shoulders.

Relief washed over his face.

"Oh my God Sherlock!" John said, "Are you okay? You were thrashing around and crying in your sleep."

Sherlock sat up confused and upset by the dream.

"I'm fine, John. I... Just had a nightmare, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

John looked at Sherlock disbelievingly and rolled his eyes, "Don't give me that crap Sherlock, you may be a genius, but I know better."

Sherlock fiddled with his slender hands. The dream puzzled him, but it was only a dream. It wouldn't happen in real life- would it? And caring was a disadvantage. Or that's what his brother taught him any way.

John?

John.

John was the one that mattered now; he was engraved into his brain. But the images. The images they...

Sherlock rushed into John's chest. Sitting up in bed was an awkward position but nevertheless it was reciprocated with a strong embrace.

"What ever you dreamt about, it will be okay. Dreams won't come true." John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

Chest to chest there was no clothing barrier- John could feel Sherlock's heart against his own. It was erratic, and then it momentarily stopped, before starting again normally. Strange.

Pulling away just as quickly, Sherlock apologised, "I'm sorry for that. I couldn't control myself."

The covers pooled at their abdomens, it was the perfect place for Sherlock to fiddle with the hem.

Slipping his hand into Sherlock's twitching fingers, John said,"I think we should get up now, don't you Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded then hesitated as the door was opened.

A lady in her forties, clad in a smart black skirt, a white button up blouse and a black blazer stood menacingly, glaring at the sight before her with a fury that she could not control. Her eyes were a raging inferno in which stole the water vapour out of the air, making it hard for any one within a ten metre radius to withstand and then... And then she opened her mouth and the tempest was released.

"How dare you." She started quietly, barely a whisper, "How dare you betray my trust and do.. do.. do something so heinous and sinful." She started to get louder, "I thought Harriet would have been a big enough example for you. A big enough deterrent. But I don't think I succeeded. Did I? And who is this guy? Huh? Did you pay him? I bet you did. You are such an ungrateful little brat, we did not raise you to be this way. Did we? No!"

The tempest that possessed the women left her with only a few gusts of wind, but they were still hurricane force, "I shall give you a choice. The same choice I gave Harriet. Stay here and stay a part of this family, or keep believing that you are in love with this boy and leave with him. I will give you half an hour. I hope you make the right decision."

She left the room, gusts of wind following her.

John started shaking, his eyes watered, then the door slammed and flood gates opened. Sobs racked his body and tears poured down his face. Pulling up his knees up to his chest, he hugged them. He had to make the right choice, even if it meant that he would never see the one person who needed him most

But he had to make a choice, he had to be better than Harriet.

It was heart breaking for Sherlock to watch Johns face think through all possibilities. Why did all his friends leave him? Why did they have to be completely eradicated from his life just as friendships had to develop?

Memories of the last few days would be etched in his mind forever. He couldn't erase them, no, he could, but he wouldn't. He would treasure them for the rest of his life, even though it would torment him to the point of no return and even after death, he would still be longing for John. Never has his loyalty to someone ever run so deep.

But a point flashed through his mind. The body, the message. The closer he was to John, the more he was at risk.

He couldn't let John suffer with a decision like this. He had to make the decision himself.

Sherlock knew what he was going to do.

Taking John's other hand he shook them gently, forcing the other boy into eye contact, "John, live a normal life with your family. I will leave. I chose this not you. It's not fair on you."

Sherlock got up and pulled on his clothes slowly. John watched helplessly as the best friend that he had ever had walked out of his room and walked out of his life. He couldn't say anything, he couldn't even cry. Tears were not going to fall.

The slamming of the door woke John from the shock and he let out a barely audible whisper as a rebellious tear rolled down his cheek, "Good bye, my friend."

A/N (HEHEHE)... To be continued...