John had been on tenterhooks all day when the time Sherlock was to be attacked by the Triad drew close. It was a good thing Jim was out "working" or he would have no doubt been annoyed by John's constant fidgeting and badgering. Moran certainly was and he had threatened to chain him down in the cellar or fetch a tranq gun if he did not stop. He probably meant it too if the vein throbbing by his temple was anything to go by.

John couldn't help it, though. They'd only had four days' notice for the Dream this time, it was the shortest warning he'd had yet, but that still meant he had to watch Sherlock die four time and Sherlock didn't even know what trap he was about to fall in, quite literally. And, despite Jim's reassurances that Sherlock would be "just fine", John was still worried they weren't taking the safest option and circumventing the whole event altogether. Damn Jim and his curiosity, but he was at least letting John come along. He didn't understand his reasons for it though, and that made him suspicious. He had thought Jim would want to keep him as far away as possible from Sherlock, out of jealousy if nothing else. Not that John was complaining because he would finally see Sherlock, really see him, with his own eyes. That was certainly another reason why he felt so restless, torn as he was between his worry for Sherlock, the anticipation of seeing him again, and his doubts about Jim keeping his promise to bring John along, but most importantly to save Sherlock. Nothing was ever certain with Jim, he was so changeable, you'd have better luck predicting the lottery numbers.

"Time to go," Moran announced when the sun was starting to disappear behind the horizon.

One less thing to worry about. John eagerly followed Moran and half an hour later, he was standing on a rooftop with a bunch of snipers covering the whole alleyway, a couple of Triad members had already been taken out, silently and efficiently, but John couldn't bring himself to care because they had probably been the ones to throw Sherlock off the roof and they deserved much worse that the dark bullet hole in the middle of their foreheads.

Moran touched his earbud, winced, then rolled his eyes, prompting John to look at him questioningly.

"Let the show… begin," he said in a very poor imitation of his boss.

John immediately searched the roof tops, if only so Moran didn't catch him laughing at him because the man had no sense of humour to speak of, but he didn't see Jim anywhere. He looked down and saw Sherlock! His heart skipped a beat. He was just as he had been in his Dream, stalking into the alley below before suddenly coming to a stop and turning round on himself when the Triad started walking out of the shadows all around him. John's anxiety shot up.

"Come on, Jim," he muttered.

But the familiar scene continued to play out: the accusations, the denial…

He's no friend of mine.

This was going too far already. Any minute now… John took a step forward, about to intervene, call for Sherlock to run, or scamper down the fire exit himself to come between him and the blades that would soon be pulled out, whatever it took, but Moran pulled him back, both immobilizing him in his favoured chokehold and silencing him with one shovel-sized hand over his mouth.

"Behave and watch the friggin show, or I'll crush your windpipe," he muttered in his ear.

John nodded but Moran kept his hold on him, not trusting him apparently. This at least explained why Moran had not been on sniper duty tonight: too busy babysitting. Maybe that accounted for his bad mood too. Soon, the Triad leader gave the signal to attack Sherlock and the night rang out with the sound of ringing metal.

"Well, well, well… What do we have here?" Jim drawled, stepping into the alley himself and seemingly alone if you discounted the dozen snipers awaiting his signal. "Jim Moriarty. Hi," he said as he stepped under a light with his impeccable suit, slicked back hair and mocking grin.

Everyone froze, Sherlock, the Triad, even John, completely taken off guard by his unexpected, and rather dramatic, appearance.

"I hear you've been looking for me?" Jim added at their lack of reaction.

"You are Jim Moriarty?" came the heavily accented voice tinged with disbelief. "Kill him!"

Jim only grinned wider and in an instant the alleyway only had three people still standing.

"Care to repeat that?" Jim asked the lone Triad member who had been the leader of his little group just a second ago but now found himself utterly powerless. To give him credit, the man was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, shaking his head vigorously as several laser pointers danced over his trembling body. "Thought not. Now, you will be a good lad and run off to your daddy and tell him that if he so much as steps a toe out of Chinatown again, I will chop them off and shove them down his fucking throat myself. Is that clear?"

The man nodded, stepped back, stumbled and landed on his arse, scrambled back and finally turned around to launch himself into a desperate dash out of the alley while Jim had a put upon face that easily translated as "Any time, now."

"Finally. Alone," Jim sighed, looking at Sherlock who had frozen on the spot when men had started falling around him like dead flies and not moved since, especially since laser pointers were still moving all around the place.

"I would hardly call this alone," Sherlock replied archly, waving his hand at the rooftops.

"Oh, that," Jim said and waved his hand dismissively, the laser pointers disappearing, but he had made his point. "Happy?"

"Hardly," Sherlock replied with a scowl. "What are you doing here?"

Jim put on a look of mock-surprise on his face, so overdone only he could pull it off and still look dangerous.

"Don't you recognize your guardian angel, Sherly. You wound me."

It was as if a lightbulb clicked. Sherlock straightened to loom over Jim threateningly.

"John. He had a Dream," Sherlock concluded, brilliant as ever.

"Yes. I wanted to see it for myself, and it's quite remarkable. Exactly as he'd predicted, to the very last detail."

"Why did you intervene? Why save me?" Sherlock asked with a grimace as if the very notion was distasteful.

"Because I had a bone to pick with those idiots," Jim answered, kicking the limp foot of one of the dead men sprawled around them. "But mostly because my dear Johnny asked nicely," Jim said with a snide smile. "Of course… it cost him."

Sherlock snarled and grabbed Jim by the lapels of his suit, but the laser pointers were back and he froze while Jim tutted and pushed his hands away to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes. John tried fighting Moran, hoping to take him by surprise but he'd apparently been expecting it and squeezed his throat tighter in warning, so John could only watch helplessly as Jim played some sick game with Sherlock.

"What have you done to him?" Sherlock demanded.

"Nothing he didn't want me to," Jim purred with a lascivious smile. "He's such a good little pet, isn't he? So… pliable."

Sherlock was fuming which seemed to be the only point of this whole masquerade. John hoped Jim had finished taunting him because Sherlock would soon break his control and lunge himself at Jim just for the pleasure of punching his smug face, snipers be damned. John was tempted to do that too, to be honest, but he might actually get the chance to. However Sherlock wasn't answering, wasn't trying to have the last word as he usually did, which could only mean he was at the end of his rope.

"Maybe you'd like to say hello. It's been so long since you've seen each other," Jim said, pointing upwards and Moran approached the very edge of the rooftop, pushing John in front of him and showing him off like some kind of fishing trophy. It couldn't get much more humiliating than that. However, John cursed the height that separated them. It was only three stories but it might as well have been worlds apart, and the look on Sherlock's face… The longing, the despair… John would give anything to be able to go to him and hold him until that expression was wiped away forever.

"And goodbye," Jim sing-songed.

Moran pulled his back from the edge of the roof before dragging him out of the building and back to the car. Unfortunately, fighting the giant of a man had only given him a couple of new bruises, a split lip and a sore throat, and now they were sitting facing each other with matching scowls until Jim came back, looking so happy and satisfied with himself that John snapped and lunged himself at him. he had almost landed the promised fist to his nose when Moran intervened again, pulling him back roughly by the scruff of his shirt like some misbehaving kitten, which only enraged John more.

"Have you boys been fighting again?" Jim asked, unconcerned that John had almost bitten his face off. "Look at you, John, all roughed up again."

"Can I shove him in the boot yet?" Moran asked sullenly, then grunted when John elbowed him in the stomach in his efforts to scratch Jim's eyes out.

Moran pulled him back once more and held him in place in a vice grip.

"What was that about?" John growled. "Why did you say those things to Sherlock?"

"Why do you think, Johnny boy?"

"What are you making him do this time?"

"Very good, John. You're learning. But it's nothing too bad, I promise. I hired him to find one of my wayward pets. Isn't that what detectives do?"

"They usually get paid to work, not blackmailed. It better not be something illegal again."

"Illegal…" Jim mused. "Such a constraining concept. Not one I'm familiar with, unfortunately."

John scowled, opened his mouth to demand answers, closed it again. What was the point? Jim was just trying to rile him up the way he had Sherlock, playing another round of whatever game it was this time around. The best way to annoy Jim was to ignore him, so John relented and sat back in the car's seat, jerking Moran's hold over his arm away.

ooo

"Are you sure about this, boss?" Moran asked Jim.

John didn't blame him. Handing a loaded gun to your prisoner seemed a bit of a stupid move, but Moran had not been there in the bathroom. He hadn't seen John's inability to do away with Jim when he had the chance.

Jim grinned, seemingly amused at Moran's sceptical expression and John's eager one.

"Oh, boys. You're just going to have to trust Daddy on this one. Now, hand him the gun, Sebbie, loaded if you don't mind. Don't worry, he won't shoot you. He knows the price if he misbehaves."

"It's not me I'm worried about," the man grumbled but handed John one of his guns.

John checked it over, more out of habit than anything else, because Moran treated his guns better than doting parents treated their children, and he stuck it in the back of his jeans, feeling like he had more control over his life than he'd had in the last month.

"So, where are we going?" John asked, looking out the car's window to guess which part of London they'd wandered into, but to be honest, he was just glad to be out and about instead of being locked up like a damn canary again.

"You'll see," Jim sing songed, his Moriarty persona settling over him like a mantle. "An old friend is waiting for us and it's not polite to be late."

John didn't reply. In fact, he made a mental note to stay out of Jim's way for the duration of his visit, hoping it wasn't something too unsavoury. John was ready to make a lot of sacrifices to protect Sherlock, but he wasn't sure he could stand by watching if Moriarty and Moran hurt innocents. Maybe Moran was right about the gun, it wasn't Jim's smartest move, but then again, maybe this was another one of Jim's little tests. How he hated his mind games. It took him forever afterwards to sort up from down, right from left, black from white… John wasn't even sure of the result in the end, if the pieces of his fractured mind had been put back in the right slot, but he wasn't all that good to begin with anyway. Only Sherlock's words helped him get through it and nurture a small spark of hope that everything would be back to normal one day.

I love you and I couldn't be happier to have known you in the time we had.

Sherlock hadn't seen the monster, or hadn't cared.

"Johnny boy," Moriarty sung in his ear before biting his lobe painfully. "Did you get lost in that pretty little head of yours again?"

"No, I'm ready," John muttered rubbing his throbbing earlobe.

They entered a high-end hotel, the kind John had never even set foot into. He would probably have felt quite out of place in it too if Jim hadn't been playing dress up with him, an activity which could have turned out more humiliating than it had already been if Jim had gotten his way and forced him into the kind of suits he favoured, or worse, assorted outfits. Thankfully, John had gotten away with very expensive, very tight, casual clothing, but no jumpers. However, beggars can't be choosers and he had to pick his battles.

John noticed the doorman hurrying forward to open the door for the trio, then the receptionist gave Moriarty a curt nod and wordlessly handed him a key while a bellboy ushered regular customers out of the way of the lift that was waiting for them. It was like watching the red sea part for them.

"Tip well, do you?" John couldn't help but ask once they were alone in the lift, despising all the groveling.

"Well, they're still alive, aren't they?" Moriarty answered.

John reminded himself to just shut his mouth when Jim was busy being all villainy, and he slunk back against the lift's mirror, waiting for the ping that would indicate their arrival. Jim moved without hesitation, taking one turn, then another before stopping in front of a door and opening it without further delay before strutting in, oozing confidence and malice. What followed thereafter was like watching a well rehearsed scene at the theatre.

"Hello, darling!" Jim exclaimed dramatically, visibly enjoying the fright he'd given the two people there.

John watched with a sick sort of fascination as Irene, all clad in dark lace and holding a riding crop, tried to make a swift escape through one of the side doors of the suite, but Moran easily caught her arm and held it in a bruising grip. John sometimes wondered if the man was simply unaware of his own strength, but he realized he felt no pity for the woman who had quite literally sold him to Moriarty before trying to steal his Sherlock and kill him and Jim by sending ruddy ninjas after them.

"John, would you be a dear and untie our dear Chancellor of the Exchequer? That just can't be a very comfortable position," Jim commented with a slight grimace as he cocked his head to the side.

John complied, taking a look at the man's face to verify that, yes, it was effectively their Finance Minister all trussed up and half naked lying in front of him. He busied himself untying the various cuffs holding him in place, taking the gag out last. This had obviously been consensual so John didn't do something as asinine as ask the man if he was alright, and the crimson blush that had spread across the man's face told him he probably never wanted to talk about it. Ever.

"I did what you asked," the Minister muttered, dressing himself at lightning speed. "I trust you'll hold up your end of the bargain."

"But of course, Minister," Jim simpered, not sounding sincere in the slightest, but the politician obviously didn't want to be there a second longer and scurried out. "Always a pleasure!" Jim called after him right before the door slammed shut, then winked at John who stood there, completely flabbergasted by what he'd just witnessed and finally turned his attention to their quarry: their "old friend", Irene.

"You've been avoiding me, darling. That's not a very nice thing to do," he said with a pout. "Even our dear Sherly couldn't find you, so I had to go through all the trouble of finding a nice juicy bait even you couldn't resist."

"I- I wasn't-" Irene tried, standing tall and proud in her negligé and stilettos.

"Dont… LIE TO ME!" Moriarty shouted in her face, making Irene and John wince while Moran simply looked bored. "Do you really think I do not know who set up the attack at the meatlocker while I was there? Do you really think I'm so utterly clueless? I know your little tricks, Irene, I could smell your malodorous mark all over that pathetic little attempt. "

"Sherlock… He was-"

"WRONG!" Moriarty bellowed again and John would have screamed at the wench himself if Jim hadn't. How dare she accuse Sherlock when she'd been manipulating him for her own purposes. "Little Sherly would never dream of hurting his beloved toy soldier."

And really, puns? Now? John almost felt like cuffing Jim over the head, but that would probably get him killed right now. Maybe later.

"Oh. But it looks like you know that now? How badly did he reject you, Irene? Did he break your shrivelled little heart, or is there still some of it left in there for me to rip out and burn?"

Irene's brave front finally crumbled. Her bottom lip quivered while tears gathered in her eyes. And damnit, John hated her, but was Jim really going to rip her heart out? Jeez, talk about being a stereotypical villain.

"You know what?" Jim exclaimed, whirling around, suddenly all bright and cheery, which didn't bode well in his experience. "I think John actually has more grievances than I do. Wouldn't you say, Johnny boy?"

John gulped, he did not like the turn this was taking, but Jim was expecting an answer and he knew only one would satisfy him so he nodded. Jim smiled and took him by the arm, leading him to stand in front of Irene while Moran pushed her down on her knees. Before John knew it, Jim had put his gun in his hand and aimed it at the woman's forehead. Stepping back to look at the picture as if admiring a work of art.

"Look at it this way," Jim told Irene gleefully. "Either I rip you limb from limb for your betrayal, and I will make you suffer for that, immensely, or John shoots you through your silly little head: quick and clean," he articulated slowly, flicking his index at Irene's head and making her flinch. "Honestly, it's the best solution, for the both of you."

John's mouth dropped open. How had it come to this all of a sudden? Had Jim planned this since handing him the gun? Since before that, when he set up this whole trap? Irene closed her eyes, apparently resigned to her fate, but really, what had she been expecting, trying to have Moriarty assassinated? By proxy, no less. Stupid.

"Oh, come on, John," Moriarty cooed in his ear, sliding behind him. "What's one more in the grand schemes of things? You killed dozens of people you didn't care about and you don't even like this one. It should be ea~sy!"

Jim slithered over to Irene, cradling her chin to force it up and she opened her eyes, pleading silently with John. She had a lot of nerve after what she'd done: trying to get him killed, trying to steal Sherlock away from him… John pushed the barrel harder against her forehead.

What's one more?

"Yes," Jim hissed, grinning. "Remember how this perfidious little snake tried to get rid of you so she could sink her fangs in sad little Sherlock, taking advantage of him when he was at his weakest. Who knows what poison she's been whispering in his ears."

John clenched his jaw. He had no doubt she had tried, she had probably gone all out and he wouldn't be surprised if she had just strutted around naked in front of him in her damned stilettos to catch his attention. It would be just her style. John took in a deep breath, fingering the trigger lovingly.

No, John. You're better than this.

I'm already a monster. What's one more?

You know you aren't.

John really thought he might be. He did want to hurt Irene, even if she was a woman, so what did that say about him?

Monster.

John might have done it, he wasn't sure. He felt… compelled, hypnotised at the prospect, but something felt off. This wasn't an enemy soldier or a patient past saving. Hell, this wasn't even an act of self-defense, it was an execution, pure and simple. John was still fighting his inner demons when the spell broke the moment the door crashed open and all heads swivelled to the entrance with various degrees of stupefaction. John was certain his eyes were about to pop out of his head, because right there, a few feet away from him, was Sherlock, a gun drawn on their little group. What a strange sight it must have been for him, their frozen little tableau with Moran and Jim offering Irene to John as he loomed over her with the barrel of his gun pressed into her forehead.

"John?" Sherlock breathed out and there were so many questions in that single word that John couldn't answer. In fact, he didn't think he could talk at all. His throat had become dry and constricted. After hoping for so long for a chance to see Sherlock, this is what he got? Sherlock with a gun pointed at him?

Suddenly, Moran pulled his own gun out to point it at Sherlock, so Sherlock adjusted his aim to this new threat, because let's be honest, John was no threat to Sherlock. He'd rather shoot his own foot than even point his gun at Sherlock.

"Right on time, Sherly," Jim said, dropping Irene's chin and wiping his hands on the lapels of his suit before returning to John's side. "Of course, we weren't expecting you, but the more, the merrier. John was just about to entertain us."

John bit his lip. He didn't want Sherlock to see him like this, to see what he was really like inside.

"Weren't you, Johnny boy?" Jim whispered in his ear, invading his private space.

"Get away from him," Sherlock growled.

"Or what?" Jim asked, snaking a hand possessively around John's waist while the other materialized a gun he must have taken from Moran and pointed it at Sherlock.

That was more than enough for John to snap out of his panicked trance and whirl around to now point his gun at Jim, placing himself between him and Sherlock.

"Oh, John… How many times must we go through this? You can't do it. You can't kill me because you don't want to." He leaned aside to address Sherlock. "Isn't that precious? I bet you never saw that coming? He really wants to shoot this little viper," he said, nodding towards Irene. "But he's incapable of killing me. Me? Isn't that hilarious?"

John gritted his teeth. He knew it didn't make sense. It made his head hurt trying to wrap his own mind around the whole warped concept. Everything had become so… wrong. Corrupted.

"Yes," John murmured, drawing every eye in the room.

Corrupted.

John let his arm fall, gun pointing down. He ignored Jim's satisfied smirk. John couldn't shoot him, he knew that, even now. There was no point in shooting Irene or even Moran, the both of them were just pawns in this game. And he certainly wasn't going to shoot Sherlock. No, there was only one player he could take out of the game to solve it, and that person was himself.

I'm corrupted.

Whatever he was now, a Dreamer, a monster, a guardian angel… John knew he wasn't what he was supposed to be. He'd been corrupted and wasn't any use to anyone anymore, least of all to Sherlock. He was bringing him more trouble than ever.

But this revelation… It was like John had just been hit by a stroke of genius, everything was so clear now. John slowly levered his gun up to his own temple, enjoying the look of shock on Jim's face, but glad he was turned away from Sherlock because it would be too difficult for him to go through with it otherwise. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes.