Alright, for this chapter, I played with the order of the cases in the show. Baskerville happened before Belgravia which happened before The Great Game. There's also only one chapter left after this, and guess what Sin that one is? I'm going to try to have it posted tonight to make up for my lack of an update yesterday.

I also have an idea for a retelling of this story from John's perspective using the Seven Heavenly Virtues. Please, let me know what you think of that so I know if there are people out there who would be interested in reading it. Thanks so much!

There were several things that absolutely infuriated Sherlock Holmes.

The first is probably obvious: stupidity. People asking stupid questions. People who are ignorant. People who don't pay attention to the evidence right in front of them. People who leap to conclusions. People who don't observe, who don't think before they open their mouths, who don't take the time to suss out answers for themselves. Just stupidity in general, really.

Donovan and Anderson were two constants that grated this particular nerve at every single crime scene they managed to appear at.

The second? People who put on acts to impress or benefit others and fail at it. He wasn't one to judge too harshly, of course, not when he could pull out a disguise in a heartbeat. He could charm a grieving widow, con the best of con men, and weasel information out of an MI6 officer as if it were child's play. The thing is, he's good at it. The people who try and fail and get mad that they failed were the ones who aggravated him. If you're going to do something, go all the way. Immerse yourself in the characterization. Embrace it. If a high functioning sociopath could pull off bereaved, a normal person shouldn't have a problem. And acting to benefit someone? To spare their feelings? That was simply pathetic.

(When he puts on an act to keep John from worrying about him is, of course, an entirely different scenario. He's doing it to preserve a business relationship, a friendship, The Work that they share. Nothing truly sentimental there. Of course not.)

Another pet peeve of Sherlock's is people who chew with their mouth open, but that's not one that needs much expounding upon. It's disgusting. That's all.

One that seemed ironic even to him, the man who had willingly went and purchased a baggie of cocaine just a few months prior, was the anger that came at other people giving him mind altering substances without his knowledge. He found it even more amusing when he took into consideration the fact that he didn't hold the same reservations with others.

Baskerville was one of those incidents. The gas with hallucinogenic properties, making him doubt his sanity... Well, he certainly wasn't upset to see the man get blown up, that's for sure, but he had drugged John on purpose. He supposed that said something about his personality, the desire to be in control of himself and wanting to strip that control from others, but it wasn't important.

But the worst one, the absolute worst thing that you could do to piss off Sherlock Holmes?

Hurt someone he cares about.

Caring for people didn't happen often for Sherlock. Those who managed to get themselves onto that elite list were immensely lucky. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John.

(Mycroft, though he'd rather shoot himself in the foot than admit that out loud.)

The first time Sherlock met Mrs. Hudson, it was to ensure her husband- the abusive, alcoholic bastard- went to jail and stayed there for the rest of his life. When the men broke into the flat, roughed up Mrs. Hudson looking for a phone she had no right knowing even existed, and thought to use her as leverage against him, Sherlock was reminded quite vividly of the black eye and the broken wrist and the busted lip that Mr. Hudson had delivered on his now ex-wife. He was long since dead, of course, but the man in their flat? Well...

He fell out of a window. Seven times.

Damn shame it wasn't more than that, but Sherlock would take what he could get.

There was a different sort of anger that appeared during Moriarty's game. It was one thing to play a game with Sherlock Holmes. He could handle himself, navigate the rules, manipulate them to his advantage. But that old woman? The blind woman, dying in an apartment, alone except for the dozen other people that lost their lives in that same explosion? The anger Sherlock felt was anger for the helpless, the defenseless, the innocent bystanders. He supposed this was John's influence at play, an unexpected factor that interfered with his thinking.

When he shut it out, John called him a machine, walked out. He didn't understand that the game needed to be played within certain parameters. He could explain it all, after the meeting with Moriarty at the pool. By the end of the night, the game would be over- one way or the other- and John would have to understand that.

Another one of Sherlock's pet peeves? Not knowing the rules of a situation. This time, however, he was on the losing side.

John walked out, wrapped in a jacket that was not his own and a vest loaded with enough plastic explosives that there wouldn't be enough left for an urn, and that's if they managed to scrape him off what would be left of the room once it crumbled around them. His face was busted up, a bruise forming on one cheek. His knuckles were bruised, some cut open, so he fought back.

The pride Sherlock felt then was all for the doctor, but he couldn't focus on that. The rules had changed. The game was truly personal now.

Jim from IT. Molly's very gay boyfriend. James Moriarty.

This was rage unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced. John was his. It didn't matter that the feelings he had were irrational, surprising, ridiculous, painful, terrifying, unwanted, immense- they simply were, and there was no way Sherlock was going to let that bastard walk away from them alive, not after putting his John through this sort of hell.

The rules changed again; Moriarty left.

The vest was on the ground, at the other end of the pool. The single sniper light vanished. The game was over.

The relief was immediately replaced by dread again as Moriarty, his laugh, his attitude, his fucking Westwood suit sauntered out again. He'd kill them anyway, he said. It was too good of an opportunity to miss.

Sherlock took a shaky breath and looked at John.

John, who still couldn't observe everything at crime scenes but who could read Sherlock like an open book.

John, who nodded once, giving silent permission for Sherlock to do whatever was necessary.

So he lowered the gun to the vest on the ground. He noted a small motion of Moriarty's hand, a pained expression on his face when nothing happened, fear.

He was sure he had never seen anything more beautiful than that expression. He cataloged it as a memory to go back to on cold winter nights when he needed a different sort of pick-me-up than what whisky could provide. He would revel in it for eternity.

Then Mycroft's men swarmed in, 10 in all, and Moriarty was on his knees, a gun pointed to the back of his head as he was put into handcuffs. There was Mycroft himself, 3-piece suit, umbrella, and all.

"Can I have a moment with him, brother?" Sherlock asked, surprising anyone who knew both men with his use of the fraternal term.

"Not alone, no."

"Oh, that won't be necessary."

Sherlock walked over and took Moriarty by the hair, tilting his head back and forcing him to make eye contact.

"Come over to gloat, hm?" the man asked, his voice shaking in a manner that obviously upset him.

"No. There's nothing to gloat about. I just wanted to tell you that it might be a good idea, if you manage to get out of my brother's grasp alive, to tell your colleagues that interfering with my life is one thing. It's fine. I honestly don't think I could care less.

"But if you ever think that it is a good idea to come after the ones I care about again, I will take you apart, bit by bit. I will end you. Is that understood?"

"Oh, has the little detective discovered that he does have a heart after all? How dull."

"No, that's where you're wrong."

He paused, then said something he never thought he would utter in his entire life.

"Caring doesn't make you dull, it makes you painfully sharp. It makes you vicious. It makes you deadly. If I were you, I would thank Mycroft here for sparing your life for the time being. Goodness knows that I wouldn't have been nearly as kind without his interference."

He brought the butt of the gun that was still in his hand down across Moriarty's temple, knocking him unconscious. He turned around before he had even hit the floor, pocketed the gun, gave a quick thanks to Mycroft, and then he was leading John out of the building and on to the main road where he hailed a cab to take them back to Baker Street.