A/N: So, John finally gets some respite... Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he isn't.

Thanks to my bestie, Abe, for reminding me John is not a wimp, and thanks to you all for your support! I know you're getting a bit impatient with the lack of John/Sherlock, but we're getting there... someday.

Finally just a last note to say I'm back to work on Monday so updates will be slower in coming. YE BE WARNED!

John didn't want to fall asleep, he had too much to think about, to analyze, to plot. But so did Jim, apparently, which was a small comfort because it meant he wasn't still hovering around him like an ominous shadow, and had locked himself in his office doing… whatever it was insomniac consulting criminals did… but not before he had tucked John in bed and kissed him goodnight. John hadn't responded in kind, as usual, just sort of… endured it, letting Jim's soft lips brush against his own, grateful the man never tried taking more from him than stolen kisses, even though he was in a position to so, or John didn't know what he'd do. He just didn't feel that way towards Jim. Sure, now that he'd gotten to know him, John appreciated how funny, smart and charming he could be, when he wanted to… but he just wasn't Sherlock. It felt wrong, and not only because he loved Sherlock and suspected his heart would always belong to him, even if he never got to see him again. No, it felt wrong in a more visceral sense, like trying to forcefully fit two corners of a jigsaw puzzle together when it was clear they belonged to opposite ends. It just wasn't meant to be.

To think John was suddenly going to fall for Jim, simply because he hadn't been able to bring himself to kill him in cold blood was a ludicrous idea, but something Jim, in all his brilliance, didn't seem to realize, or just didn't care to acknowledge. Not that John was going to point out the obvious, he didn't want to challenge Jim into proving him wrong. That could go very wrong, very fast. So, he endured.

But now, on top of all these conflicting emotions raging inside him, whenever Jim came too close or touched him, coaxed a smile out of him or made him doubt himself and everything he thought he knew, John could hear Sherlock's voice in his head repeating "Stockholm Syndrome" in a loop, over and over again, until he thought his head might explode.

John felt like the world was trying to rip him in two, so when the Dream tugged at the edges of his consciousness, he gladly let himself be pulled down under.

ooo

As soon as he saw Sherlock, John knew this was one of his prophetic Dreams, simply because there was no other way for him to see Sherlock now. He also knew he should be investigating the vision, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock, his Sherlock, as awestruck as if this was the first time he was seeing him in all his glorious cheekboned beauty. John catalogued all the changes he could see: thinner, dark circles under his eyes, his hair hung limply as if he hadn't washed it in a couple of days and he was even sporting some stubble, something John had never seen before, to the point he'd wondered if Sherlock even needed to shave. It was a worrying sight, but Sherlock's clothes, on the other hand, were as immaculate as usual, which meant he was just not taking care of himself properly, but had at least stopped by Baker Street not long ago for a change of clothes, and that meant Mrs Hudson had surely shoved a scone down his throat before she let him out again.

John approached Sherlock, intent on inhaling his familiar scent and committing it to memory but he stopped short when he glimpsed the ninja standing just a few feet behind him. Whether it was the one John had fought against or another, he couldn't tell because of their head to toe black outfit. John stood close to Sherlock, as if he could protect him when he knew all too well he couldn't and that Sherlock would be dying before long. That realization made John search frantically for any clue as to where and when he was. He hoped Sherlock would think to tell him before it was too late, the way he had at Maple Cross. It made the whole process so much easier.

He also looked for any sign of Clara and Oswald, wondering if Sherlock had sent them away now that John wasn't there anymore. He hoped he hadn't sent them packing in tears like his previous security detail. He'd liked the two Dr Who nerds, even if he was a bit miffed at them right now for not being there.

"You set us up," a heavily accented voice said.

John turned around, trying to pinpoint the one who had spoken and who was undoubtedly the leader, but these people, the Triad, no doubt, were all standing in the shadows, surrounding Sherlock from all sides, the voice echoing against the grubby wall of the back alley they were standing in. However, John glanced at Sherlock and noticed he was staring straight at one black-clad man in particular with that satisfied smirk he wore when he figured something out. John couldn't help but smile before inspecting the man in question: sharp black suit, black button down shirt, black tie… John would bet his left hand the man's socks and briefs matched too. He could probably use some fashion advice from Jim. Unfortunately, there was nothing else notable about him, no distinctive jewelry, no visible tattoos, not even a scar to speak of.

"I didn't 'set you up'," Sherlock sneered, flipping his coat collar up while his eyes darted around. "You wanted to find one of Moriarty's hidey-holes and I gave you one. I don't see what the problem is."

"We know your little friend was there," the voice replied. "The blond soldier who lives with you. He's the reason Moriarty escaped. It was a trap and I lost many of my men because of you."

Sherlock scowled, his lips pressed together in one long line.

"He's no friend of mine," Sherlock ground out, making John flinch and stare back at him in shock. "He switched loyalties and has nothing to do with me. If your informants weren't so obviously incompetent and lazy, they could have told you he left weeks ago."

"I'd like to believe you… but I don't," the voice concluded and raised his hand, signalling towards Sherlock.

Men walked out of the shadows, all around Sherlock, more than he'd seen at first glance, six at least, and the chilling sound of metal being unsheathed sang in the night air. Sherlock cursed and tried reaching the only escape route he had left by barreling forward, knocking over a couple of men, but taking a couple of cuts in retaliation, before he could jump up to catch the first ring of a fire escape ladder, pulling it down enough for John to be able to follow dream-Sherlock up.

"John," Sherlock said as he climbed, glancing down periodically with a frown. "If you're here, it means I'm not going to make it."

John startled, realizing he was addressing him, the Dreamer, directly, giving him the eery feeling once more that this was more than just a Dream. He so wished he had a way of communicating with him, of helping instead of just watching helplessly.

"I didn't mean what I said down there. I had to try," Sherlock added, stopping briefly to catch his breath. "They're not following," he muttered when he glanced down again, not sounding as happy as John thought he should be. "Just know that if this is it… if this is the end for me and you can't do anything… I know you… You're going to blame yourself and you shouldn't. I love you and I couldn't be happier to have known you in the time we had," Sherlock chuckled. "Of course, if this is not the end, I'm making a right fool of myself right now."

John had to wonder at that: if Sherlock sometime spoke to him, thinking he was done for, only to escape unscathed. He did tend to get himself into impossible situations. Sherlock took his phone out and John thought he might have left it on the screen displaying the time and date just a bit longer than he would normally would, then, he called Lestrade and gave the address, asking for backup. John sighed in relief, he had all the information he needed. Sherlock hung up, looked up at the roof and then around him.

"I wish I could see you," he whispered and continued upwards when the noise coming from downwards seemed to indicate his pursuers had decided to follow him after all.

Sherlock was out of his sight for only a few seconds, the time for him to climb onto the roof while John climbed up behind him, when he saw Sherlock fly over the edge of the roof in one graceful arc and fall past him, eyes wide open and staring up while the wind whipped at his hair and coat. John was still frozen in place, hanging on to the metal rungs and looking down with horror at where Sherlock had fallen… at Sherlock's broken body…

ooo

"Sherlock!" John screamed, flailing out as if he was falling himself, but someone caught him and he hung on with all his might, blinking away the last image he had of Sherlock, his neck and leg bent at impossible angles. His only consolation was that Sherlock had been too far down for John to see his face, his eyes… From all of Sherlock's deaths he'd had to witness, it made it a little more tolerable.

"John, shhh… It's alright."

John blinked away his panic, focusing on Jim's earnest face.

"Jim," John said urgently, pushing him back so he could look at him, then hesitated. He knew this day would come, eventually, and Jim would just have to let him go, willingly or not. "Sherlock… I have to go. I have to warn him."

Jim looked at him with an eager expression. If he refused, John would fight him, he'd even hurt him to protect Sherlock. He'd do anything for Sherlock.

"A Dream," Jim whispered, his hand cupping John's chin so he could look into his eyes. "You had one of your Dreams. Fascinating." He paused considering. "Tell me about it."

"Will you help me if I do? Help Sherlock?" John asked, hoping he could bargain his knowledge for Sherlock's life. If there was one thing Jim loved, it was being well-informed.

Jim grimaced.

"I really don't want to," he sniffed. "But I'm curious, so just for this once… Sherlock lives."

John beamed, relieved beyond measure and so grateful he could kiss him, but demanded a pen and paper instead, which Jim very grudgingly foraged for and handed him, but he seemed too curious to do otherwise and watched eagerly at the words John was writing, before scowling.

"Your penmanship is abysmal."

"Like every good doctor's. We're specially trained to write this badly. Here, we can just give this to Sherlock and he'll know what it means," John explained and handed the slip of paper to Jim.

Jim took it, read it over and slipped it in his pocket.

"No," he said simply, leaving John dumbstruck for a second before his outrage took over.

"What do you mean 'no'? You said you'd help."

"And I will. But I want to understand how you tick, John, how this ability of yours works. I want to see it run its course for myself, I want to see it unfurl, be a part of it, live it through you. Do you realize how intriguing this is? How so not boring? How special and unique you are?"

John gulped. Jim was giving him that look again, the one that made him feel as if he was going to be pounced into the ground and eaten alive.

"That you know of," John replied and shifted back against the headboard, spine ramrod straight, but Jim took that as an invitation to get in bed next to him and lean against his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Granted… that I know of. Do you think there are many others like you?"

"Mycroft and Sherlock seem to think it's a likely probability."

Jim snorted.

"Of course the Holmeses would try to belittle you. I suppose I'm the good old fashioned villain in their little fairytale world?" Jim snarked, then seemed to light up. "Well, I suppose I am, at that! Who shall I be? The Big Bad Wolf who lured little Red into a trap to devour whole?"

Jim sighed and looked at him condescendingly.

"And I suppose you believed them."

"Of course I did. You're a bloody consulting criminal, Jim. How much worse can you get?"

"You wound me, John. The very purpose of being a consulting criminal is that I don't get my hands dirty. In fact, I daresay the Iceman couldn't even make me stand trial."

John's look must have spoke volumes about his scepticism on that point.

"Even if he knows, he can't prove it. Isn't it brilliant?"

John bit back a retort about his modesty. He wanted Jim's cooperation right now, not his wrath, but his assertion that he never got his hands dirty surprised him nonetheless, especially after all the threats he'd made.

"But you did…" John finally said, thinking back on the Dream in the warehouse with the fake crime scene and the fake policemen. "I saw it, once, you pulled the trigger on Sherlock."

Jim looked momentarily puzzled before he broke out in a grin.

"You Dreamed about me before? I'm so flattered, John," he said, batting his eyelashes theatrically. "Will you tell me about it? I'm surprised I shot Sherlock myself to tell you the truth, that's not really my style, but maybe I was having a bad day."

"That- I think it was actually my fault. Now… I don't know. I'm not sure you were really going to shoot one of us. There was no point to it and you just said it yourself: it's not really your style," John bit his tongue, realizing he was babbling and saying much more than he needed to.

Jim's eyes lit up with interest. Too late.

"Tell me everything, every single little detail," Jim ordered. "No, wait. Tell me about tonight's Dream first, and then about your other Dreams. I want to know everything."

John was to tired to bargain for a better deal. He had just ensured Sherlock's safety and that's all that counted. Hell, he'd even tell Jim his most humiliating memories if that kept Sherlock safe. So he shared his Dream with Jim and thought he might even have impressed him with the level of detail he could recall. He was quite proficient at it now, especially after Sherlock had given him pointers on observing what was really important. However, John was rather reluctant about sharing what Sherlock had told him on the fire escape. It was private, words meant for his ears only and he cherished them more than anything else right now. Besides, it would feel like yet another betrayal towards Sherlock to share them with Jim, so he cut it short. But Jim knew, of course. Nothing escaped him, the same way nothing escaped Sherlock. The two of them were eerily similar in some aspects and John often wondered where it had gone so wrong for Jim.

Jim asked him question after question once John had finished his account, and he was mumbling incoherently by the end, but that didn't stop Jim. He was tireless, like a kid with a new toy, and John probably fell asleep talking.

The next morning, John woke up with a start. There was something urgent he had to take care of, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was and his surroundings were only confusing him more by the disturbing lack of white he had gotten so used to in limbo. Everything came back in a rush when the image of Sherlock falling flashed through his mind's eye and he jumped out of bed, ran downstairs and skidded to a halt in the kitchen where he could hear the familiar sounds of breakfast being prepared, but too late, he barreled into Moran's hulking body who had to juggle with his bowl of cereals to keep it from dropping to the floor.

"Hey, Doc," the man chuckled. "Inna hurry, are you?"

"Where's Jim?" John asked urgently, swiping the milk off of the too tight pajamas Jim had lent him.

Moran raised an eyebrow.

"Out. Business to attend to. What's so urgent?"

John frowned at the man. He had no idea what he knew about his Dreams. Nothing, he hoped, but Moran seemed to be as close a friend as Jim had, so it was possible he knew. John wasn't taking any chances of having his secret more widely spread than it was already though and his mouth snapped shut.

"Not that urgent, then," Moran concluded, sitting himself at the small kitchen table. "Come and have breakfast. Bet you could use some after yesterday. That was some hell of a fight and I've been in my fair share of them. Jim told me about that blasted ninja too. If I ever get my sight on him, he'll wish he'd never been born."

John rolled his eyes, but he was starving and he fixed himself some toasts and tea for the both of them, falling into a strange sort of domesticity with this man he barely knew, save for the fact that he was a top notch sniper and could kill you in a simple chokehold without breaking a sweat. John found out he was a good story-teller too, so he was kept entertained all throughout breakfast, until the moment Jim reappeared. Jim sauntered into the kitchen, kissed the top of John's head, which made him blush beet red and Moran made himself scarce again, which made John wonder if he had been so chatty and amiable because he was on "babysitting" duty.

Stockholm Syndrome... Don't trust anyone.

That made John wonder how paranoid he'd become. Would he start seeing ulterior motives behind what everyone did from now on instead of accepting that some people were just nice because they actually liked being nice, or sincerely appreciated you? Was Greg nice and helpful only so Sherlock would solve his difficult cases for him? Was Mrs Hudson housing them for next to nothing in case her little drug indulgence got her in trouble? Same for Angelo and his free meals: maybe it wasn't so much gratefulness as saving up on favours.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Jim teased at seeing his somber expression when he took the seat Moran had vacated.

"No… just wondering."

"About what?"

"People."

Jim hummed, looking at him contemplatively.

"You'll find they're all rather dull in the end, I'm afraid. Just simple organic amalgams of selfish desires and stupidity."

"Is that why you find them so easy to kill?"

Jim's smile turned malicious, looking more like Moriarty, the feared criminal mastermind, than Jim in that instant, and John shuddered. Maybe he'd gone too far this time. Stupid, he'd been so good at keeping him tame lately too so careful about not setting the man off, but as Moriarty's expression grew more somber, John knew he'd have to pay the price now.

"Do you realize you've probably killed a lot more people than me, Johnny boy? Even as an army doctor, you have used your weapon, haven't you? Do you even know how many fell under your bullets? Do you even care? Or do you just swipe all of those nameless corpses under the carpet of 'Duty' and never look back?"

John cringed, the blood draining from his face at hearing those cruel words, all the more biting because he knew them to be true. Hell, one of the reasons John felt so blessed to have been granted his Dreams to begin with was because he didn't have the nightmares his fellow veterans suffered from, because it gave him a new purpose in life and something to distract him from the horrors he had both seen and committed, because it allowed him to forget and keep the guilt at bay. Especially the guilt at having felt more alive on the battlefield than at any other time, at missing it when he'd been discharged, he knew that was seriously fucked up. Did he miss killing, too?

No. That was...

Collateral damage?

"And what about the people you couldn't save, Doctor? Do those tally amongst your victims too? They did die by your hand, technically speaking."

John could recall them, not by their names or even their faces, but by the wounds that refused to close, to be cleaned, healed, leaving only bright crimson blood on his hands.

It wasn't like that. He'd done what he could.

"You're sitting on a throne of skulls so high, Johnny boy, that my petty crimes can't even compare."

John pushed his chair back, feeling sick, and stalked out of the room, hearing Moriarty's shrill laughter as he hurried to the bathroom to empty his stomach. He had wanted to forget it all and had been doing a fine job of it until then. But he just had to taunt Moriarty, didn't he? And the mad genius wasted no time in tearing away the blinkers John had been wearing to prove just who was the real monster out of the two of them.

A wolf in sheep's clothing and a sheep in wolf's clothing. No one really as they seem.

"Johnny boy?" Moriarty sing-songed from the other side of the door after a light knock.

"Go away," John muttered, feeling wretched.

"Oh. Don't be like that. I was only answering your question."

John frowned.

"No, you weren't."

"It's not my fault you were asking the wrong question, but you have an answer now, don't you?"

I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing. A monster. I've fooled even myself.

A few minutes later, the door opened, because apparently, locks were as optional to the man as the concept of privacy. It was Jim who looked down at him with a wry expression and tutted.

"Now, look at what you've done to yourself," he said and grabbed a towel to wipe John's face and help him up, still shaking and sweating as he leaned against the sink's countertop, feeling that maybe if he could vomit everything that was so foul and twisted about himself, he might be worthy of Sherlock again someday. But as it was, maybe Sherlock really was better off without him nearby, in case he contaminated him, or worse, hurt him.

Don't listen to him. He's twisting words, ideas, yourself… Don't listen to him, John.

John averted his eyes from his reflection. He knew he'd see the stranger's eyes there and he didn't want to lose it in front of Jim, but Jim had other ideas and crowded around him so he couldn't flee before forcing his chin up, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

"Just look at you, John. Look at you," Jim breathed into his ear, his hand sliding from his chin down his throat, both seductive and threatening.

Don't look, John.

John twisted around to find himself face to face with Jim, knowing his defiance would either anger him further or amuse him. Fortunately, it was the latter and Jim laughed before stepping closer, bringing their bodies flush together, forcing John to lean back as far as he could.

"You're so alive, John. So bright and full of fight. You truly are one of the angels, aren't you?"

"I'm a monster," John whispered shakily, trying to wiggle free.

"Everything that is different is a monster," Jim answered in a murmur, leaning forward to nuzzle John's neck and bite lightly. "But don't worry, you'll soon learn the world is full of them. You've even met the worst of them... No, not me, silly," Jim chided and finally pulled away, giving John some breathing room, then taking his hand as he pulled him back towards the living room. "The Iceman. That one is a real piece of work and wholly deserves his title. Reminds me a bit of the White Witch in that children's book, with his secret police and obsession with control... Do you know it?"

At John's bewildered nod, he grinned and pushed him into the sofa, for which John was grateful because he was feeling so confused and sick.

John, came that small voice at the back of his head again, a warning.

"Mycroft Holmes," Jim sneered as he threw himself on the sofa next to him and let his head fall in John's lap. "He likes to think himself above everyone else, so far above we're mere ants to him. And the way he manipulated you... Sherlock tried to warn you, I suppose?"

John nodded dumbly. How could Jim know all this? He'd been locked up at the time… Cut off from the world…

Tortured.

Jim chuckled humorlessly.

"See how even his own little brother despises him? Did the Iceman promise you had nothing to fear, that he would keep me locked up forever?"

Another nod. John wasn't sure why Jim even bothered asking, trying to include him in his one-sided conversation.

"He was never going to do that, John. The Iceman wanted information, and he got it. From me, and from you. The only reason he would decide to get rid of me would be if I paused a real threat to Sherlock, but with you in the picture, his dear baby brother's safety is as good as guaranteed. However, if I disappear, it would be chaos, so he released me."

Jim chuckled at whatever his face must be doing and played with the hem of his borrowed shirt while waiting for him to process all the information. John's mind reeled as it rearranged itself with this new piece of information his whole world turned upside down. So far, it sounded completely… logical… plausible even, except for one thing.

"Why would it be chaos with you gone? You're the criminal mastermind of the whole bloody country," John said, frustrated that he couldn't follow and that it seemed to amuse Jim.

"And as such, I have my hand in everything, I can control, limit, punish... With me gone, there are no boundaries. Just look at what happened with the Triad when they thought they had an opportunity: civil war in the middle of London. Not to mention the void my disappearance would create in the Underworld. Every little group will fight like packs of hungry wolves to fill it, to take over the remains of my empire without a care for collateral damage, and The Iceman doesn't want any of that nonsense."

John hated that his explanation only made more sense and he regretted the times when his world had been black and white.