A/N: A big Sherlolly thank you to everyone who is reading, and the following fantastic reviewers: MorbidbyDefault, whytejigsaw, MuteBanana, Get Sherlocked, Deep-within-the Labyrinth, Troubled Fred, Rocking the Redhead, superlc529, AdaYuki, Empress of Verace, Lono, Beth-TauriChick, coloradoandcolorado1, IVPayne, KendraPendragon, Zacha, Henr233e, lollipop-chan, DragonRose4, ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe, wickedwanton, Nat, Punknatch, MolotovsandAngst, CumberChelz, Fayth3, scifishipper, BritMel, nightingales-rose, K, and deadgurlagain. Thank you all so very, very much!

At the request of MerLocked: Special dedication to Tinfoil2010! I hope you had a great birthday! Thanks for reading!

This story is closing fast. I estimate between 6-10 more chapters and it will be finished!

I'm sherlolly on Tumblr and on Facebook at Facebook DOT com SLASH Nocturnias

Summary: John learns that Irene is still alive and the game is one step closer to completion.

S&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&M

The Grotto was a favorite hangout of musicians, artists, and writers. Small enough to be cozy but large enough to accommodate about 100 patrons, it was also a favorite hangout of groupies and for an upscale level of prostitutes. Very discreet, of course, and not a huge ring that branched off into drug or slave trafficking so it was by and large left alone. Sherlock knew Lestrade didn't know about it, and he had no intention of telling him. The girls that worked the bar were valuable sources of information.

Sherlock knew the bar had odd hours, but he was still surprised to see it was open at 1 p.m. John glanced over at him. "The Grotto? I've never heard of it."

"It's a well-kept secret of sorts," Sherlock said absently. "This is the first time I've seen it open so early. Still should be able to find some clues."

"What, had you planned on breaking in?" John asked, then sighed. "Why do I keep asking ridiculous questions?"

"I'm not certain; however, you technically just asked two in a row," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John scowled. Sherlock pulled the door handle and they stepped in.

The bar was dimly lit, the grey London day seeping in a little sun through the clouds. A tall, ginger man stood behind the bar polishing some glasses. A few men and women were working on laptops or chatting quietly on mobiles. One woman sat in the back sipping whiskey: expensively but sexily dressed, blonde hair halfway down her back.

Sherlock frowned. He knew that bearing. Irene.

Before he could move toward her, the barman glanced up at him and John. His expression was a combination of alarm and anger. "Oi! I thought I told you not to come back in here, you git!" He barked, glaring at Sherlock.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

"You heard me. After what happened last night I'll be lucky if anyone shows up tonight. I told you, I don't care if you think Steve shagged your girlfriend, I don't want trouble! So settle up with him someplace else like you did last night, coz he's not here and I bloody doubt he'll be back!"

John frowned. "Sherlock?"

"You're lucky I didn't call the coppers on you last night. Now leave before I do!" The man said, his voice rising.

Irene turned and sauntered over to them. "No need for that, sweetie," she purred in a thick Cockney accent. "He's moved on now from that cheating tramp. He's here for me. And brought a friend as well. Should be an interesting day. We'll be going now," she said, slipping an arm around each man and steering them out the door.

Once outside John turned in shock. "Irene?"

"The one and only, darling doctor man," she grinned. "Keep walking in case he changes his mind."

"I thought-Mycroft-bloody Hell," John swore. "Doesn't anyone actually die around here anymore?"

"I don't recommend trying it," Irene advised him in a conversational tone. "Risky business."

John struggled to get his head on straight as they headed away. "OK. So you're alive. Good. That's good." He suddenly frowned and glared at Sherlock. "You knew. All this time you bloody knew!"

"I couldn't tell you," Sherlock said softly. "She needs to remain dead to be safe."

"You know what? You've not been able to tell me a whole fucking lot of things in the past year or two!" John said angrily. "And I'm supposed to be, what, OK with that? Well I'm not, Sherlock!"

"People's lives were at stake," Sherlock said, stopping the three of them and staring hard at his best friend. "Do you think I wanted to keep her being alive from you? Or keep me being alive from you? I had no choice, John!"

John knew that, intellectually. But he was too hurt. It was like Reichenbach all over again: everything being kept from him. "I've had enough secrets and lies for one day," he said, pulling free from Irene and turning to walk away.

"John, please!"

The almost-sob he heard in Sherlock's voice made him stop.

"If we don't stop Moriarty, he's going to kill. Maybe me, maybe Molly, maybe thousands of people. He's been blackmailing me for six months now with the threat of killing you, Mrs. Hudson, and other people by setting off bombs he's randomly hidden around London unless I do what he wants."

John slowly turned and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were glassy as though he was struggling to hold back tears. "He was monitoring me with the mobile. I told you everything I could without violating my agreement with him. He… he's behind my relationship with Molly. He fell in love with Molly when he was playing 'Jim from IT' but she rejected him because of me. He wants me to fall in love with Molly as well, and then he'll reveal his final move of the game."

"My God," Irene said softly.

John studied Sherlock. "Are you in love with Molly?"

Up until even a day ago, Sherlock would have said no. Instead he replied: "I don't know. I don't know… what it feels like, to be in love."

"And she doesn't know anything." John shook his head. "Oh, my God. Never mind Moriarty, Sherlock, this will kill her if she finds out."

Sherlock felt a single tear slide down his face. It burned and froze him at the same time. "Right now there's nothing I can do," he said. "I can't…John, please. Please. If not for my sake, do it for Molly's."

John felt his own eyes watering up. He scrubbed at them furiously and cleared his throat. His voice was as rough as Sherlock's when he said: "I suppose I can punch you later on just as easily as I could now."

Sherlock managed a laugh. "No hug first?"

"If you're lucky," John retorted. He smiled faintly then sobered. "Sherlock… Moriarty obviously has someone impersonating you again. If that man in the bar calls the police and describes us, Lestrade will know it's you. You'll be the prime suspect."

"That's not all," Irene said, and both men turned to her. "Moriarty has something going on in a warehouse in Islington. I haven't been able to find out what but several of his men are going in at odd times during the night. They carry things in but don't ever bring anything out."

"Islington? That's not the same warehouse, then," John said, and Sherlock frowned.

"Molly grew up in Islington. Moriarty likes to come full circle with his games. He liked me going to the pool where Carl Powers died and he used "Rich Brook" as his actor name. This warehouse is where he's planning on ending it. What's the address?"

When Irene told him, Sherlock frowned. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.

"The first murder was here, the first warehouse was here, and the second murder was here," he said, plotting points on the paper with a pen. "The Islington warehouse is here."

John frowned. "All I see are a bunch of dots, Sherlock."

"That is because you are not connecting them, John," Sherlock said. He made two marks on the paper. Irene and John both gasped.

It formed the shape of a heart.

"I'll burn you," Sherlock said softly. "I will burn the heart out of you. Like it got burned out of him."

He looked up at Irene. "What are they taking into the warehouse?"

"It's all been in unmarked boxes," she replied. "They've been building something, though. You can hear the sounds from across the street. Hammering, drilling, metal… the only thing that wasn't in a plain box was a sculpture. They carried that in as is."

"A sculpture of what?"

"A copy of The Lovers."

"Molly's favorite," Sherlock said, and scowled at the look of surprise on John's face. "Oh, for goodness sake, John, I have remembered everything Molly has told me since this started. I didn't delete anything because I wasn't certain what might be useful." He frowned. "This is a movie."

"What?" Irene asked.

"The last time it was fairy tales. This time it's a movie. And like the stages of loss except the stages of love. Denial, anger, bargaining, and acceptance. I've given him everything but the acceptance. He thinks it will come very soon. He's preparing for it. He's building the set for the final scene. That's what all the construction is for. But what is the scene?"

"Well, wouldn't it be the acceptance? Where you tell Molly you love her?" John asked. "But if you don't know, then something will have to happen to change that. That's how all romance movies are."

"And the usual thing that makes that happen is-" Irene chimed in-

"-The boy thinks he is losing or has lost the girl," Sherlock said softly.

Sherlock's mobile rang at that moment. He answered it. "Yes, Lestrade?"

John and Irene saw his face change. Sherlock was already pale but now he looked like death warmed over.

"On the way," he said.

"Sherlock?" John asked as Sherlock pocketed his mobile.

"It's Molly," he said, voice low and afraid. "She collapsed in the morgue."