Thanks so much for all your lovely feedback! Please don't hesitate to leave a review, otherwise I end up thinking I'm just tossing these words around for the ether to feed on XD
So...we see the return on Sculptor. I did promise that he hadn't been forgotten and so we have him making a shit more problems for John.

One kind reviewer has asked how long this story will be; the answer is simple. It will finish whenever it reaches a natural end (because I have no clue, plot bunnies are hiding everywhere)

The good news is that 'Swan Lake' is over, bad news is that my arms took such a beating.

...

No. No this wasn't possible. It couldn'tbe possible. This had to be some joke, a cruel stunt of Moriarty's design. The gun in his hand began to shake imperceptibly, but John forced himself to still his hand and to cling onto some composure. During his years in the military he'd seen horrors nobody should ever see, things that should have destroyed him psychologically. But nothing, nothing had ever made him want to throw up where he stood as seeing the Sculptor's face did now. It was as if he was back in that dank cellar again, bleeding and curled up on the floor. Everything else around him became a blur, even Sherlock's voice appeared distant in comparison to the Sculptor's twisted gleeful smile.

'John?..JOHN!'

John blinked rapidly, trying to regain control his ragged breathing. Sherlock's face, usually so calm and impassive, seemed practically electrified with the worry in those silver eyes. There was something about the notion of Sherlock being afraid for him brought John back to the reality of their situation. He doubled his grip on the gun and aimed it squarely at his former tormentor's face. He had no qualms, he'd do it. He was more than happy to kill the man that scarred him so badly. But what repurcussions would follow should he pull the trigger? The uncomfortable fact remained that he and Sherlock were heavily outnumbered and could easily be overpowered, possibly even killed. He took a deep breath and thought back to something one of the boys in his regiment told him back in Afghanistan:

Wait right up until the last second. Don't give away any element of surprise. Give yourself time to plan.

He lowered the gun, his mouth dry. There was the tiniest sign of relief from Sherlock, but John made himself ignore it. A thrill of guilt began to dampen the fear; he had never confessed – to Sherlock, or to anyone – about Sculptor. Nobody knew about him, believing they had captured everyone involved in Markin's plot. John had lied to Mycroft about his presence for fear of the consequences should the police find the rat-faced man. It was like having a personal ghost, lingering in the back of your head.

John blinked, clearing his head of all the melodrama clouding his head. He turned his gaze instead to Sherlock, who was now frowning questionably at him. He owed Sherlock and explanation, and an even bigger apology (presuming they survived tonight of course) about his own cowardice.
'How are you John?' Sculptor said suddenly, causing John to jump. It was delievered in a polite tone, as if they were old schoolfriends catching up. He felt another wave of sickening bile rise up in his throat. He opened his mouth to tell him just exactly how he was feeling but no words came. He kept his eyes on the space between Sherlock and himself, as if he could will the entire scene away.

'Doctor Watson that's very rude.' Moriarty snapped sharply, 'You shouldn't ignore people who are talking to you.'

'Go to Hell.' John snapped back. The harshness of his voice spurred Sherlock into action too, the detective tensed himself, ready to either run or fight. Moriarty chuckled darkly, delighted that his 'boys' were showing a little spirit at last.

'Oh really? You have one gun between you and no back-up. What exactly is your plan for getting home tonight?' He drawled waspishly. John pressed his lips together. They had no plan. Maybe he should just grab Sherlock's hand and run whilst shooting anyone in his way, damn the consequences. Even in his panicked state, it was a stupid idea.

'Kill them here and now? Come now James, that's not your style.'

John flinched at the Sculptor's voice, every word felt like a punch to the throat. Sherlock drew himself to his full height, a sure sign he was about to be impressive. John wet his lips with apprehension, if Sherlock went shooting his mouth off in front of the two most dangerous men in the country it could spell a grisly end for both of them.

'This new 'game' will not go ahead if John is involved.' He announced.

John inwardly groaned, nowSherlock indulged in a heroic streak?

Moriarty grinned 'Oh I likethis new noble side to you Sherlock.'

'I mean it.'

'I'm sure you do. But really, you must let your boyfriend speak for himself.'

'Why are you here?' John spat to Sculptor, who raised his eyebrows.

'I owe James a favour.' He shrugged, his pinched features etched with a kind of macabre delight. 'And I did enjoy our time together, didn't you? My little tin soldier?'

In hindsight, what John did next was, without a doubt, the most idiotic thing ever in the whole history of human stupidity. Had he had been a more cold, calculating machine like Sherlock John would have ignored the jibe and continued to plan an escape. But he wasn't a calculating machine, he was a very scared and angry man.

He lunged with a cry and roughly tackled Sculptor to the ground, much to Moriarty's glee. The chaos that erupted with Moriarty's thugs was unimportant to him, all he could concentrate on washurting Sculptor as much as possible. He became aware of someone fiercely tugging at his torso, prying him off, but not before he delivered an intensly satisfying punch to his tormentor's face. Voices melted together, it became impossible to identify who's voice was who's. The hands at his torso whipped him round by the shoulders. John braced himself for as fight but stopped abruptly. Sherlock looked electrified with adrenaline, eyes bright and ivory flushed with scarlet.

'Party's over.' He smirked, gripping John's wrist. Like a bizarre battering ram both men forced their way through the wall of men barricading their way out. As they ran Sherlock voilently shoved a young man with his shoulder, the guy fell heavily backward, landing with a sickening thud of the dirty floor.

Feet slipping on the damp stone, John's chest stung at the shortness of breath. He felt sick, distant. It was as if he were insubstansial and was little more than a ghost anchored by the pressure of Sherlock's hand on his arm.

He's back. You knew he wouldn't vanish forever. What am I going to do?

...

John barely registered Sherlock flinging him into a passing taxi or the car driving back down the familiar streets of London. Only when the warmth of 221B flodded across his face did John shakily lower himself into his armchair, face cupped in his hands.

'Care to explain?' Sherlock said lowly, a voice John recognised as his 'trying not to be angry' voice. For a second John flirted with the notion of denying anything untoward had happened. But he needed to come clean with Sherlock, it was the least he could do.

John raised his head and took a deep breath, forcing himself to look Sherlock squarely in the eyes. Not an easy task, that quicksilver stare always seemed to be one step ahead of the story anyway.

'First off; I'm sorry. I thought it was best if I never told you. But obviously I'm the bloody Kingof stupid decisions. You were bound to find out anyway, even if I didn't say anything Mycroft would-'

'Mycroft knew?' Sherlock interrupted sharply, his tone livid. John winced, Sherlock considered it the ultimate betrayal of trust if his brother was privy to information he wasn't. John shook his head vehemently.

'No! Mycroft still doesn't...I meant he'd find out...Never mind. That man tonight, h-he was the one that actually did all of this-' he gestured to himself, the spidery network of scars that now covered most of his body. 'He carved that word into my chest, he turned my back into the human pincushion...Hewas the one that took 'an eye for an eye' a bit too literally.'

John's voice wavered, like a child caught in the act of a wrongdoing. He dropped his eyes from Sherlock face and stared at his hands. It was odd, hearing it said aloud, it felt wrong, like Sculptor could poison the atmosphere without being present. But now it had started to come forth, little bits fought their way through.

'When I was kept there...He used to talk to me. God the things I heard... He told me of things he'd done. He said I was his favourite...a steadfast tin soldier.'

That was it, John felt tears sting his eyelids. He squeezed them shut to make them go away. He used the balls of his hands to wipe the moisture off his face, unconsiously wiping the eyepatch too. It sounded straightforward but it had been anything but. When Sculptor had whispered to him in the dark, their lips separated only by inches of air and a blade, it had been almost...intimate. John felt filthy and sick just thinking of it. It felt like he was betraying everything he had with Sherlock by admitting just how much the Sculptor had got under his skin. Soft footsteps crossed the room and when John opened his eyes again he saw that Sherlock had crouched down in front of him, not even bothering to discard his coat. The silver eyes were soft with sympathy, but it was hard to ignore the steely glint that accompanied intense scrutinisation.

'Why didn't you tell me?' He asked.

'I told you, I didn't want to tell you about-about him. I was scared, I still am. L-Like if I speak about him he can see me...he can find me again. Oh God I'm so pathetic..'

'Don't talk like that.' Sherlock snapped, but softened his voice when John flinched again. 'You are nothing of the sort. I've heard you talk in your sleep, like you're trying to outrun something. I deduced it was nightmares of your experience with Markin-'

'Correct.'

'But you should have told me.'

John shook his head 'And what if you met him in the street? What if he had hurt you?'

Sherlock rubbed against John's knee with the side of his hand (a gesture his mother had done frequently to comfort him as a child) and exhaled.

'This man haunts you, how can I help you if you won't let me understand?'

'Sherlock this man is dangerous.' John blurted, suddenly gripped by a dread. He leaned forward and seized Sherlock's shoulders with both hands, Sherlock looked faintly surprised but didn't move. 'He's not dangerous in the same league as Moriarty, no-one is. But please...I don't want you messing with him.'

'But he-'

'NO! Sherlock for once in your life just listen to me! Promise me you won't get involved with him.'

'I promise.' Sherlock said. John narrowed his eyes, the answer was too swift to be a genuine promise. The bloody detective was lying.

'You've got Moriarty to worry about.' He reminded him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'And I suppose it's pointless me asking you not to get involved with my deadly game of cat and mouse?'

'Completely.' John affirmed. Sherlock nodded grimly.

'John?'

'Hmmm?'

'You're starting to hurt my shoulders.'

'John looked at his hands in suprise, his knuckled were white with how hard he was grasping Sherlock's shoulders. He jerked his hands away.

'Sorry.'

Sherlock got to his feet, shaking off his coat. The clock struck ten on the mantlepiece. John could tell Sherlock's brain was too active to go to sleep but he himself felt like curling up and closing his eyes.

'What now?' He mumbled to the room in general, wrapping his arms around himself.

He felt the senstion of lips press to the top of his head.

'Now we wait to make our move.' Sherlock said.

...

*Emerges from hiding* Phew. Glad that's over.

Sorry about my absence, 3 SHOWS IN 3 WEEKS is a bloody nightmare!

This may be my last update before Christmas, so everbody have a good one and I wish you all the best for the New Year! xxx

Next time: The game begins. Lestrade is confused, Donovan is furious and Sherlock is bitchy (again).

Addio my children x