Moriarty was supposed to be dead. Sherlock had seen it with his own eyes. The trigger pulled, sending a bullet into his skull, splattering blood. He shot himself, forcing Sherlock to jump. Keeping him away for two years. Away from London. Away from John.

John. It crushed John.

Sherlock prided himself on his superior intellect. And then came Moriarty, the villain to his fairytale. But Sherlock Holmes had never created the life of a fairytale for himself. He was a highly functioning sociopath, not a hero. He was not born for that role.

Jim Moriarty was mad. Sherlock was not homicidal. He had no desire to kill. It was only his vow and his deep desire to protect John Watson that guided the bullet from the pistol in his hand to the brain of Magnusson. Moriarty, however, craved playing fatal games with the simpleminded, and testing the intellect of the proclaimed genius Sherlock Holmes. "That's what they do. People DIE!"

But not Jim Moriarty, no. He was alive, taunting the detective once again. He had aimed guns at Sherlock's chest. He had strapped John with explosives. He had threatened the lives of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if Sherlock did not jump to his supposed death.

But his message was clear now. He was done with the teasing. He was ready to act, to pull the trigger, to set off the explosions. And to prove it, he had taken Mary's life.

"It was really quite simple," the letter read. "Everyone has their pressure point, and everyone has their price. Give them money or consequences and they're all puppets, and I'm the master who knows what strings to pull."

Mary had been murdered.

John had struggled with the leaden words in the letter, weighing him down and sinking him into his mattress. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault. But it was hard to know his association with his best friend had killed his wife. Sherlock rose from the dead and Mary fell into her grave. And the question pounded in his mind: Sherlock or Mary? It was hard to swallow the fact that he could not have both; only one. It was a decision he would never be able to make on his own.

But he didn't have to. Moriarty had made it for him.

Moriarty. The name was acid on his tongue, fire in his veins. The man who had taken his best friend away from him for two years. Two fucking years of visiting an empty grave. And such a long time of wondering whether or not tomorrow was worth greeting. This man was keen on taking everything from John's life. Everything he valued. Because it was simply a sick game to him.

There were men who found thrill in life's chaos, like John and Sherlock. Then there were those who found thrill in birthing mayhem.

"John, I... I'm so sorry." Sherlock's words were a whisper. His deep voice sounded pained, and his sharp gray eyes shimmered with brimming tears.

John looked at the man built of stone and saw the cracks that had formed. He watched him sit down, fumbling to make sure he landed in the chair, as his hands gave the slightest hint of a tremor that caused the letter to quiver ever so slightly.

"Sherlock, I, uh, hadn't meant to blame it on you. I just thought, well, it's likely a trap. He's trying to draw you in. And I can't..." John's voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he finished "and I can't lose you. Not again. Not you as well."

He had been looking at his clasped hands while talking, but now dared to glance upwards into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock stared back with an unwavering gaze. He stood up.

"I'm not very good with this compassion thing you preach," he said. "But I promised you I'd try." He walked over to John and stood before him, looking expectantly. John's eyebrows knit together in question.

"Well don't just sit there, stand up," Sherlock commanded. John hesitatingly obliged. Sherlock awkwardly wrapped his arms around John and held him close.

After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, John let himself collapse in his friend's warm embrace. He rested his head upon his chest, feeling the rise and fall and hearing the quick beating of the heart. John could breathe in Sherlock's warmth, his life, and his deodorant that smelled suspiciously like John's. He could even smell the lavender wafting from the dark curls.

Sherlock held John slightly tighter and John reveled in the human comfort. His heartbeat slowed as he finally relaxed in a welcomed embrace. The pounding of Sherlock's heart quickened before he suddenly pulled away.

"I have work to do," he said, stone-faced once again. He twirled around to grab his coat and leave.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"I have a case to attend. Dead bodies are waiting."

"Should I come?" John asked, fumbling around and trying to remember where he put his coat.

An infant's cry sliced through the heavy silence that had quickly suffocated the room. "I think Lucy needs care," Sherlock said quickly as he rushed down the stairs and out the door.

"Brother dear, this better be important," Mycroft drawled into the phone.

"Well I'm certainly not calling you to ask how your dreadfully dull life is going, brother dear," Sherlock replied.

"You'll be pleased to know I'm still alive and still successful. Now what do you want."

"Moriarty's head," Sherlock said flatly.

"Sherlock, your recent homicidal tendencies are a bit startling."

"I told you, I shot him because he was going to kill Mary."

"Yes, Sherlock, but next time try not to shoot an unarmed man who had been vital to the government."

Sherlock scoffed. "The man wanted to blackmail you as well, brother. You should be thanking me."

"Get to your point already; why did you call me and interrupt my lovely slice of cake?"

"Moriarty. Have you found him yet?"

"I told you I would call when we located him. This is a waste of my time."

"He's in London, Mycroft. He's rebuilt his network. And..." Sherlock cleared his throat, then choked out, "and he killed Mary."

"Mary died in childbirth," Mycroft said with slight uncertainty.

"I've read a letter telling of a maternity team bribed to ensure complications occurred."

"Dammit, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, his usual calm demeanor waning. "Does John know?"

"John's the one who received the letter," Sherlock whispered, then cleared his throat. "Mycroft, I need you to strengthen the manhunt. He's not after me alone this time. He's taking collateral damage."

"Sherlock, we're doing all we..."

"Dammit Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. "Do more! He's trying to weaken me by taking away the small handful of people in this whole bloody world whose lives I actually value! Mary is gone, Mycroft! And who's next? Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson?"

The phone was shaking in his hand. Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "John?"

"Sherlock, I can't move resources for personal matters."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft! I'm too smart for your bullshit! We both know you can and you better damn do so. And what if he decides to go after my dear brother, what then? Do I tell mum that Mikey died because he wouldn't let his brother Sherlock ON THE CASE?"

"Is that what you want, to be back on the case?"

"And secret supervision of Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John at all times."

"You do remember why you were taken off the case, don't you?"

"Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, I remember everything. Really, Mycroft, can we drop the stupid questions and remember I have a key to your house and quite a few homeless friends who wouldn't mind a stay?"

"Sherlock..."

"Put me on the case, Mycroft. I need this."

"Fine, only so you don't waste more of my time. But I do have a question first. Are you asking me now because you've missed the thrill you get from these things, or because you're seeking vengeance for John?"

Sherlock flipped the phone shut.

John was walking back from the store with a bag of baby diapers and formula hoisted in his left arm. A long black car pulled up beside him as he waited to cross at the intersection. He sighed as the rear window rolled down and a dark haired woman stuck out her head.

John rolled his head. "I hope we're going somewhere nice this time," he complained. "I could use a cup of tea in a nice, cozy café if it's not such an inconvenience."

The door swung open and John climbed into the car.

"I really was hoping for a café this time. Maybe a restaurant?" John questioned.

"I'm really not a fan of noisy places crowded with average people and their boring conversations," Mycroft replied.

"So I see you're a fan of abandoned tube tunnels," John deadpanned.

"Yes." Mycroft's menacing smile stretched across his face. "We need to have another conversation about my dear brother."

"He's been rather boring lately for him. Just following Lestrade around like a lost puppy and solving simple cases. He hasn't taken any clients in months," John rattled.

"Yes, well, there's probably something going on in that head of his that's convinced him to do so. While that would normally seem troublesome, we have a bigger problem at hand."

"Is... Is he found? Do you know where he is? What he's planned?" John looked with pleading eyes, nearly begging Mycroft to reveal any answers with his voice.

But Mycroft didn't have answers. "No. Sherlock has requested to be placed on the case again."

"But, but I thought he said he left the case because he didn't want to 'participate in Moriarty's boring games.'"

"Did he? How vain of him. Well regardless of his ego and lies, Sherlock is in great danger."

"Are you saying he was kicked off the case?"

"I think the phrase we had used was 'banned,'" Mycroft replied. "As I was saying, now that he is back on the case I fear his life is in jeopardy. Moriarty..."

"Banned? Why the hell was he banned?"

"John, please stop interrupting. Moriarty is out for blood. More specifically, Sherlock's blood. I need you to watch over him. Stop him from doing anything drastic. And preferably, keep him distant from the case. It was hard enough sending him to his death the last time. This time I fear death is inevitable if he's not careful."

"Hold on, I think you lost me. You sent your brother to his death?" The disbelief on John's face was evident.

"Well, almost. I thought you knew." Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"No, I don't know. Care to elaborate?"

"The plane, John. Sherlock was being sent on an M6 mission."

"Yes, and he said it'd be over in six months. Then he'd be back."

"Be back? No, John, in six months he would've been dead."

"And, and you sent your own brother on this mission."

"It was that or the death penalty," Mycroft replied. "I thought I would buy him some time, and hopefully London would miss him enough to dismiss his murder charges. But then Moriarty made his move."

"As if he knew Sherlock's death was coming, and it wouldn't be at his hands," John thought aloud.

"Precisely. Moriarty is seeking vengeance, John, and only Sherlock's blood will satisfy him."

John burst through the door of 221 Baker Street. "Where the hell is Sherlock?" he shouted. A baby's cry replied.

"John, John dear! We just got her to nap," Mrs. Hudson protested, rushing to greet him.

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked, breathing heavily, face red with rage.

"He's upstairs, dear," Mrs. Hudson answered. "He was just playing the violin to put Lucy to sleep."

John climbed up the steps, two at a time, and burst into the room containing his daughter's cradle and Sherlock Holmes with a violin tucked under his chin.

"Really, John, I thought you'd be more considerate of your own baby. I just got her to sleep and now she's wailing again. It's quite difficult to think anymore."

John stormed up to his friend and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he screamed.

"Tell you what?" Sherlock said calmly, placing his violin down. "And for God's sake, quiet down. You're disturbing the baby."

"M6. Six months. And you didn't tell me?" John was fuming, his hands shaking as they grasped Sherlock's shirt.

"I told you I was going on a mission that would last six months. What else was there to tell?"

"Don't lie to me Sherlock! Mycroft told me! He told me, six months and you were going to be dead. For real this time! And you didn't tell me!"

"John, I didn't think it was something you should know."

"You're my best friend, and you were just going to leave me again?" John's anger broke into a sob as tears began streaming down his face. "Sherlock, I lost you once before. And it was hell. Hell. I... I can't lose you again, and you didn't even let me say a proper goodbye."

Sherlock stood up and removed John's hands from his shirt. "John," he whispered, still holding his hands. "You didn't lose me though. I'm still here."

"But what if Moriarty hadn't sent that message? What if you really left? And I didn't get to say goodbye?"

"Would your goodbye have been different if you knew I was heading to my death?" Sherlock asked.

John sobbed loudly and looked up into his friend's eyes. They were a stormy gray color today, beautiful and unnerving. He was vulnerable under that stare, unable to hide from the intellect behind those eyes that analyzed his every move. There was no use in lying to Sherlock, or pretending.

"Yes," he choked out. "It would've."

"John, you had Mary and a baby coming. I... I couldn't tell you. We both know, you would try coming for me. And I couldn't do that to you or Mary. And I certainly couldn't burden you with the knowledge of my impending death. Besides, we all die eventually. It's just a matter of time."

"I... I would've saved you if I had to. Somehow. I would've. You said it yourself, Sherlock, I save lives. But dammit, why can't I save the lives of the one's I love?" John pulled his hands out of Sherlock's and wrapped his arms around him as he leaned his head into Sherlock's chest, breathing in the comforting familiarity of his smell as his tears soaked his shirt.

Sherlock uncomfortably rubbed John's back, assuming that was what John would want. Compassion. "I don't know," he whispered into John's ear, his lips just brushing against the man's skin. "I don't know."

John stifled another sob and pulled back. He reached into the crib to rock the crying baby in his arms. "One more question, Sherlock," he managed in a cracked voice. "What's the real reason you were off the Moriarty case?"