Despite his exhaustion, Sebastian couldn't sleep, even as Jim curled up next to him and drifted off. Sebastian watched him. He'd never thought until very recently that Jim had the capacity to love. Jim didn't seem human enough to love someone. And certainly his love for Sebastian was sick and twisted and if they were to ever have a relationship it would be unhealthy in the extreme...but thinking back on it, Jim had never let him fall under any real harm. If his life was in danger, Jim threw aside everything to help him.

In sleep, Jim looked like an ordinary, rather adorable lrishman. Awake, though…Sebastian thought of John, and wondered if John would ever be able to love him again, or to be normal at all. Whether he could or not, Sebastian would stay with him and help him for as long as it took. He had plenty of money; provided the law didn't catch up with him, he could provide for John for a long time. Once he was sure Jim was deep asleep, Sebastian pulled out his mobile and texted Sherlock.

Did you make it in? Is John all right? –SM

That depends on your definition of "all right." –SH

What's his current condition? –SM

Unconcious, bound, and locked in a cupboard. –SH

When are you coming back with Jim? -SH

Sebastian's stomach turned at the thought of John bound in the closet. He hoped there was a good reason for it.

So is that how you treat your best friends, then? –SM

When they turn a gun on me, yes. Answer my question. –SH

Jim likes to get moving early, but he's just falling asleep now. ETA 9 am at the latest. Be on the ready. I'll text if I can, but no guarantees. -SM

Just as Sherlock sent off the text, John started to come around. For a moment, he thought he had indeed, been killed, until he heard the soft pawing of Mrs. Buttons outside the door, and John's stomach dropped. He had so wished it was over. He wanted it all to be over. He moved to push the door open, but realized his hands were bound. Jim had never done that before—it must've been Sherlock. He pushed on the door anyway, and found it was locked. Jim hadn't locked him in for two days, and the panic he felt bubbled up inside him like it had that first time and he tried franticly slamming himself against the door as best he could. When that didn't work, he settled for pounding on it with his bound fists, sobbing, "Sherlock! Sherlock, please! Let me out! I'm sorry—I'm sorry! I promise I'll be good! Please!"

Sherlock swallowed, hating his friend's cries. He carefully opened the closet, braced for anything.

John choked and sobbed as he looked up at Sherlock. He didn't' climb out yet, waiting for permission, lest he get in trouble. His face was puffy, red, tear-stained, and terrified as he sobbed, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry! Please, Sherlock…"

"Are you afraid of me, John?" Sherlock asked, pulling him out of the dark to look him over.

John stood before him, trembling and miserable. He didn't know what to do or where his alliance lay with. He was confused and scared, and all he could manage was a weak nod as he looked down at the ground.

Sherlock grasped John's head between his hands. "John, look at me," he said as gently as he could, trying to meet John's eyes with his intense ones. "Don't you remember our past few years together? Don't you remember? You're my friend, John, my only friend. You saved my life many times. You're my blogger. Don't you remember?"

John found it hard to meet Sherlock's eyes. He'd been looking down at the ground and avoided eye contact for so long. He tugged lightly at his bonds and swallowed, giving another small nod at the ground. "Of course I do," he said, his voice quiet and raspy from his crying.

"John, I'm not going to untie you because I'm concerned that you're going to try to stop me from doing what I have to do," Sherlock said, still cupping John's face. "Understand that I am doing this for you, to help you. You've developed an...unhealthy attachment to Moriarty in your captivity, and it's natural that you would be confused for a while. But when all this is over, things are going to be much, much better. All right?"

John looked up at him and shook his head, his tears redoubling and streaming down his face. "Please...please, Sherlock...you can't kill him, please...everyone will die...please...please don't kill him...he's all I have anymore, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to shut out John's pleas. They were deluded, he rationalized. It was illogical of John. He would come around. "I'll give you a choice, John," he said over John's begging, trying his hardest to remain calm and collected. "If you don't want to watch, I'll put you back in the closet. If you don't want to go back into the dark, I can keep you out here. But either way, John, Jim Moriarty must be killed."

"No!" John dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, grasping at his coat, "Sherlock, please, you don't understand! If he dies, everyone dies! He has snipers in place to kill everyone, including you," John sobbed. "Please don't kill my friends—please don't kill my sister and Mrs. Hudson, please. I'm begging you," he cried, desperately and franticly, but he could tell from Sherlock's face that he wasn't changing his mind. What was wrong with him?

John decided he couldn't take it anymore, then, and weakly and dejectedly crawled back into the cupboard to sob loudly, his throat raw, but he could stop the tears or the strained breaths that racked his body. Everyone was going to die. Everyone. He couldn't take it. The pain and guilt on his conscience was weighing him down and he felt like he was suffocating.

Sherlock wrenched open the closet door and sank down next to John, gathering his head in his arms. "John, do you really think I didn't know? It's me, John. Sebastian and I have been working together to pick off the snipers, one by one. We've been detangling Jim's web right under his nose and he hasn't even a suspicion. You're safe. Everyone's safe now." He stroked John's hair, instinctively rocking back and forth just slightly as he held onto John.

John choked out another sob, though this one was of relief. Sherlock knew...? Of course he did...and then Sebastian knew as well...so Sebastian was still trying to help him? John hadn't properly seen him in over a week and he hadn't forgot about him, but he had thought that Sebastian had forgotten about him. John had become terrified, meager, and paranoid, jumping at everything, filled with relief with Jim arrived because Jim would feed him, Jim would let him out, drink, go to the bathroom, do his chores. Jim was all he had. "Please," John whispered, completely torn, "don't kill him, Sherlock...please don't kill him." Even though he knew he should hate Jim...he simply couldn't find it inside of him anymore. Jim had ripped out every feeling John had leaving only dependency, desperation, obedience, and self-loathing.

"He's brainwashed you, John," Sherlock said. It broke his heart. He knew such things were recoverable, but it would take time. "It's not logical that you should be defending him. He's tampered with your mind, don't you see? Don't you remember all the horrible thing's he's done to you? He keeps you in a cupboard, for God's sake!" he seethed, his rage threatening to bubble over.

"But I deserved it...' John said weakly, wishing Sherlock would see, would understand, that this was his own fault, not Jim's. "I was being bad," he sniffled loudly against Sherlock's lap, his tears dripping onto Sherlock as he shook lightly. "It's my fault, Sherlock...everything's my fault," he mumbled, starting to repeat it over and over again, berating himself for having been so bad, for having killed Mike, for having Sebastian give himself over to Jim. Everything was his fault.

This was stuff Sherlock wasn't going to be able to convince John of. He needed therapy, as soon as possible. He would need to work through this irrational guilt with a professional, but Sherlock couldn't help but say fiercely, "None of this is your fault. Jim Moriarty did all of this. He did it because he wanted to hurt you. Now. Please, John, I need to be ready. Do you want to go back in the closet or stay out here?"

John flexed his jaw, trying to get ahold of himself. He wanted to splash cold water on his face. "Can...can I go to the bathroom?" he asked softly, his voice shaky.

"Yes...but, John, please don't be offended that I come in with you. I'll turn away, I'm just...I'm concerned you'll try to hurt yourself," Sherlock said carefully.

John looked at him, horrified. "No!' he replied. Not even Jim had ever followed him into the bathroom.

"So you'll give me your word you won't try to hurt yourself? Or me?" Sherlock asked, feeling foolish.

"I already promised you that in the hospital..." John mumbled, pushing himself up to sit and pressed his palms against his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself. "So, may I go by myself?"

Sherlock nodded, disturbed that John seemed like he couldn't do it until Sherlock gave him the go-ahead.

Meanwhile, Sebastian was busy quietly removing the normal selection of hidden knives from Jim's jacket and shoes, stuffing them in the duffel bag, that way Jim would be unarmed when he returned home. He then slid carefully back into bed and curled next to the madman, trying without success to sleep.

John dragged himself to the bathroom while Jim slept and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked horrible. His jumper was baggy and hung from his frame. He turned on the water and splashed his face. He stared himself in the eye for a long, long time. Today, it would end. It would finally, finally end, and things would be as they should be. He'd be safe.

He stayed in there for a while, staring at his reflection, before he quietly slipped the cover off the toilet tank and recovered the gun he'd stashed after the gala, pulling it from the plastic bag and stowing it in his jumper. His face was dried, but it still was red and puffy. He silently walked to the cupboard, hands still bound, and crawled back in. "Please don't lock me in, Sherlock," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded, not knowing what else to say besides, "I won't." He went to hide himself from view from the front door, keeping his gun close at hand. He felt a text from Sebastian hours later, after the sun had risen.

On our way back. Be ready. -SM

Sebastian had awoken in the morning, rolling over to Jim and nudging him awake. "Jim, it's likely time to get up..." he said softly, leaning down to kiss Jim's shoulder and up to his neck.

Jim groaned and mumbled, "Nooo...I don't have anything to do until afternoon..."

"Well, if I recall, you gave me some jobs that I have to complete. Come on! Up! Don't make me smack you around some more!" Sebastian said, slapping Jim's arse and throwing his trousers at him. He leaned in and gave Jim a long kiss.

Jim gave him an annoyed look and then kissed him slowly back before he rolled out of bed and started pulling on his trousers. "I could just call them off, you know..."

"Mmm, you could, I suppose," Sebastian said, rolling over to grab his shirt. "I'm touched, that you'd put spending time with me in front of an assassination. Amazed, too."

"I didn't say I was going to, just that I could." Jim scooped up his shirt and started pulling it on, doing up the buttons, for once not really caring how he looked.

Sebastian leaned over to kiss at Jim's neck once more as he buttoned up his own shirt, then gathered up the rest of his things, and threw them in the bag. He hunted down the rest of his clothes and shoes. "Well. Ready?" You're not ready, Jim, he thought. You are so not prepared for this.

Jim shrugged on his suit coat and flung his tie over his shoulders, then raked his fingers through his hair. He nodded, grabbing his wallet and stuffing it into his trouser pocket. "Shall we?"

They headed out and Sebastian drove them home. He opened the door for Jim to get out, then opened the door to the house. Once inside, Sebastian immediately trained his gun at Jim's head.