There's been an ever so slight monumental cock up with the dates. My bad, guys, I can't count. That would be RIDICULOUS. Therefore, as a reader, you have suddenly jumped forward three days to December 16th… Yes. BELIEVE IT. IT IS SO.

Also, some pre-slash Mystrade happened. I LOVE MYSTRADE, OKAY? Sherlock/John is still my OTP, but come on…

Sorry, not quite sure why my A/N is so ranty today. I apologise most profusely. Normal, polite A/Ns will continue next chapter :D

Part the third

But what of little Gerda when Kay did not return? Where could he be? No-one knew; no one had any idea. There was great grief in the town; little Gerda wept many tears. Then people began to say that he must be dead, that he had fallen into the river that flowed past the city walls. Oh, what a long, dark winter it was!

At last came the spring, and the first warm sunshine.

"Kay is dead and gone," said little Gerda.

"I don't believe it," said the sunshine.

"He is dead and gone," she said to the swallows.

"I don't believe it," declared each of the swallows. And at last little Gerda didn't believe it either.

"I will put on my new red shoes," she said one morning, "the ones Kay has never seen, and I'll go down and ask the river."

It was still very early when she kissed her sleeping grandmother, put on the red shoes and walked all alone through the city gate and down to the river.

December 16th

11:00pm

Sherlock paced the room, trying to make sense of the events unfolding in front of him. Lestrade was still sat in the same place on their sofa, stinking of alcohol, and Sherlock was fairly sure that if he looked in the kitchen bin, he'd find an empty bottle of scotch. Greg stared blankly at the wall opposite, as if transfixed, hands clenching and unclenching.

"Sherlock, this shouldn't be acting like this, this isn't normal."

Sherlock sighed and looked at John. "It's hardly a normal situation."

John ran his hand through his hair. "I don't understand why Moriarty's deviating from his pattern. I mean, he was targeting people who he thought deserved it last time. But first Frasier, then Adam, then Purity? That doesn't fit. Why did it change?"

Sherlock flattened his palms against the kitchen table and bowed his head. "I'm sure he'll be only too happy to tell us. He should ring soon. He will ring soon."

Sherlock could sense John hovering behind him, like he was reluctant to ask him something. "Sherlock," he began. "If he's gone after Daniel and Stephanie, surely-" He glanced over at Lestrade. He didn't seem to be able to hear them. "Surely Chloe is a natural target next?"

Sherlock shot him a grave look. "I suspect so. It's unlike him to leave a game unfinished."

John swore. "But why? Why go after them too?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "You really want to know what I think?" John nodded. Sherlock beckoned to him to go into the corridor with him. Once they had shut the door quietly behind them, Sherlock murmured, "I think he intends to derail Lestrade."

John's eyes widened in shock. "What, so he can't work the case?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think he wants to make Lestrade do something stupid. Those kids are all he has left of his family; God knows what he'd do if he thought he'd lost one."

There was a creak of the floorboards behind them. Sherlock and John both swivelled quickly, very on edge and ready to attack any assailant. Luckily for them (or unluckily for Sherlock), it was only Mycroft, walking up the stairs and absentmindedly swinging his umbrella.

"Not now, Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "I'm busy."

Mycroft laughed coldly. "How naïve of you to think I don't know that. I trust that DI Lestrade is in your flat?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "What's it to you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You needn't be so tetchy. I'm here to help."

"I'm not being tetchy!" Sherlock retorted. "We can look after Greg just fine, thank you very much. You can go."

Mycroft ignored him and pushed the front door ajar, with an angry Sherlock following him. Lestrade looked up at his entrance. "Sherlock?" he said croakily. "Who is this?"

Sherlock grimaced. "This is my older brother, Mycroft. He's the British Government."

Lestrade looked a little startled at this, and stood up rather suddenly, but Mycroft sighed. "Ignore my idiot of a brother." Sherlock bristled, but Mycroft simply looked Lestrade levelly in the eye. "I understand that your children have been targeted by the criminal Moriarty."

"Yes," Lestrade said slowly. "How did you-"

"It is unimportant," Mycroft interrupted, but not unkindly. "What is important is your family's welfare. I can arrange an upgrade in security for them, if that would help reassure you of their safety."

Lestrade looked relieved. "You would do that for me?"

"Anything for the long suffering DI Lestrade," Mycroft said with a grin. "Anyone who can endure the near constant company of my dear little brother for five years deserves all the protection he can get."

Lestrade, for the first time since he had arrived at the flat, smiled. "Well, I could hardly say no to someone who can call Sherlock Holmes an 'idiot' and still live to tell the tale."

"Alright!" Sherlock interjected with a frown. "Enough flirting, you two."

Both looked taken aback by the accusation, and shouted "Sherlock!" at him, but Sherlock knew the pair well enough to realise that there was some truth in his remark. "I told you he was an idiot," Mycroft said smoothly to Lestrade. He turned to Sherlock and John. "Goodbye Sherlock, Dr Watson." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was a fraction deeper. "Detective Inspector."

Mycroft left, still swinging his umbrella and humming a little tune to himself. Greg glanced at his watch. "Jesus," he said suddenly. "It's eleven already? I need to go."

"Greg," John said firmly. "You're staying here."

Lestrade was confused. "But, I haven't got any clothes-"

"We'll get a taxi to yours tomorrow before you interview Purity, you can change then."

"But-"

"Greg, as a doctor, I am telling you that you need to rest, and you certainly won't get any in your actual home. There are too many reminders. So you will sleep here, do you understand? You can have my bed."

Lestrade was bewildered and abashed, but relented. "OK… I might go to sleep, if that's alright with you?"

"Of course," John said kindly. "Up the stairs."

Lestrade traipsed upstairs, visibly sagging. As soon as Greg rounded the corner, John sat down, almost replicating the position Lestrade had been sat in.

"You're remarkably forceful when you want to be," said Sherlock.

"It comes in useful," John replied.

Despite himself, Sherlock shivered. "I can imagine," he said weakly.

John screwed up his hands, which were entangled in his hair. "This isn't fair, Sherlock."

"Life is very rarely fair," Sherlock muttered bitterly.

John groaned. "I just want to understand."

"You will, soon enough," said Sherlock uncomfortably. "Moriarty should ring at midnight. Then we'll know."

John yawned. "Do you mind if I don't wait up with you? I'm shattered, and I should be well rested for tomorrow."

Sherlock's memory flashed back to John's date with Sarah with a pang. "Of course. Be my guest."

Sherlock made sure to busy himself in the kitchen as John got himself into a pair of pyjamas and found a spare duvet. He did not need another unnecessary distraction. "Greg's already asleep," John said quietly. "Crashed out without even changing, poor sod." He positioned himself on their sofa. "I'd better not find another finger in here Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "That was one time. You know, I could always sleep on the sofa, as it's unlikely I'll be able to sleep anyway…" Sherlock's motives for this offer were not entirely pure. The idea of John between his sheets was too good an opportunity to pass up.

"No, it's fine," John dismissed. "I'll be OK here. Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

December 17th

12:00am

John had not taken long to drift off either, quickly curling into a ball on the sofa and burying his head into a pillow. He looked like a very large, very sexy dormouse. It was too adorable for even Sherlock to express in mere words. He satisfied his urge to leap on the man by simply watching him for a while- he had time to kill, after all. He glanced down at the brown hair, with small flecks of grey trailing through it, delicate on John's head. The thick eyelashes obscured John's exquisite eyes, both the perfect almond shape that Sherlock had long since become familiar with. His lips were slightly parted, and one hand poked out from the duvet, flat against the sofa.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the phone vibrate against his thigh. Finally alert, he swiftly answered it. "Moriarty."

"Sherlock. Nice to speak to you again."

Sherlock unconsciously pressed his hand against his chest, where Moriarty had defiled him, and winced. "We need to talk."

Moriarty laughed. "Oh, I do love it when you're masterful. Go on then, ask away."

Sherlock paused. "You've changed your pattern. Before you were killing those who were involved in immoral acts, why would you change that now?"

He could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice. "There are two kinds of people in this world, Sherlock, the villains and the victims. And although it's harder to want to save the villains, when you fail a victim, it hurts all the more."

Sherlock stood up. "So that's it? Now you're killing innocents, just because you wanted to prove that to me?"

There was a giggle at the other end of the phone. "Little Frasier was the best. You were really cut up about that one, weren't you? You couldn't save him…"

Sherlock gripped the edge of the fireplace. "I will save them. I will save the rest."

"You have such a hero complex, Sherlock."

"No I don't," Sherlock spat. "You think I care about the people involved? They're collateral damage. I just want to win."

Moriarty laughed again. "You know that's not true. Otherwise, why would you be on their side? There's good in you," Moriarty said the word like it was a disease, "that you can't suppress."

"So what if I do?" Sherlock snarled. "That just proves that I am not you, Moriarty. That can only be a good thing."

Moriarty let out a quiet noise that sounded like a growl. "You don't know who you are anymore, do you? You used to think you were just another villain, taking advantage of the situation for his own good, but you're not. So what the hell are you?"

Sherlock ignored him, trying to regulate his thoughts. "I need to ask you about Greg's children. Why?"

Moriarty snickered. "You know why. I want him to break."

"But why?" Sherlock insisted.

"Because it would prove to you what you've known all along. Lestrade is not the saint you believed him to be, and neither is John."

"What does John have to do with this?" Sherlock yelled suddenly. John stirred in his sleep, and Sherlock froze. Slowly, he walked into the kitchen, attempting to keep his rage within, at least for a while.

"John has everything to do with this."

"I asked you about Lestrade's kids. Whatever their father does or doesn't do, it doesn't affect them."

"Au contraire, Sherlock. I told you about the two kinds of people in the world, Sherlock, the villains and the victims."

"What the hell do you even mean? Where are you going with this?"

"By Christmas, Lestrade's children will have been broken. Not dead, I assure you. But broken. Their fragile little minds will be fractured, chipped, like glass. And Lestrade will only have himself to blame."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "You're sick."

"You think I need you to tell me that? No, Sherlock, I knew that already," Moriarty said, his soft Irish lilt sinisterly twisting the words. "And whenever you need reminding of it, you just look at those pretty little scars I gave you."

Moriarty hung up, and Sherlock allowed his fingers to touch the indentations on his neck. They had stopped bleeding but were still obscenely red, angry marks of ownership and revenge. So I guess I'm a victim too.

Sherlock began to make himself a cup of coffee- there was no way he'd sleep tonight. There were too many things to consider, too many angles and positions to observe from. What did he mean, broken? He sincerely believed that Moriarty would not kill the children, but Sherlock knew from experience that there were far worse things than dying. And the idea that it could possibly be Lestrade's fault was absurd, but Moriarty was good at twisting things for his own sick agenda.

There was a sudden, strangled moan from the other room, and Sherlock's heart sank. John hadn't had a nightmare in days; Sherlock was beginning to think that they might be ending. He walked swiftly to the other room, crouching next to the sofa.

Except, John's face was not contorted in anguish, as Sherlock had expected it to be. It was soft and relaxed, his mouth open wider than before. He was breathing heavily.

"Shush," said Sherlock softly, stroking the doctor's hair. It was one of the few occasions where he allowed himself to touch John so intimately. He would risk blowing his cover to lull John back to sleep.

John's arms were outside the duvet now, palming at the material. John's eyelids flickered and he threw his head back as he moaned.

"Oh, God," he groaned, twitching in his sleep.

Sherlock continued to comfort him. "It's OK, it's OK, it's OK…"

"Christ, I-" John's back arched. "Sherlock."

Sherlock became unbalanced, falling backwards and nearly hitting his head on the coffee table. "John?"

Those were not frightened wails. They were something different all together- the sounds of John's ecstasy. "Sherlock, please, please."

Sherlock had no idea what to do. A rush of feelings suddenly flooded into him- excitement, arousal, fear, relief, they all came at once. Was this- Did this mean that John was attracted to him? He didn't dare to think it.

John let out one final howl before slumping back into sleep, not showing any signs of what had just happened, except a slight flush to his face. Sherlock staggered to his feet, collapsing back into an arm chair, gripping the arm rests like his life depended on it. He no longer needed the coffee to keep him awake.

"Is it true that you have taken my little playmate?" she said. "I'll give you my red shoes if you'll let me have him back."

The waves, she thought, nodded back to her very strangely. So she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she owned, and threw them into the water. But they fell close to the bank, and the little waves carried them straight back to her. It seemed just as if the river would not accept her dearest possession because it hadn't taken little Kay. But then Gerda felt that perhaps she hadn't thrown the shoes out far enough, so she climbed into a boat that lay among the rushes, and went to the further end of it, and threw the shoes again. But the boat had not been moored fast, and the movement made it float away from the shore. It began to glide away, gathering speed all the time. At this little Gerda was very much frightened, and began to cry; only nobody heard her except the sparrows, and they couldn't carry her ashore.

Was the ending a little cruel? I apologise. Still- now there is hope!