It took one bad run-in with a banshee to make Sherlock one-hundred percent more thankful that (for some reason) John liked him. Ears still ringing, he slowly got to his feet and tried to help the other man up. John looked at him dazedly, ready to fall over.

"Up you get, John, easy does it," Sherlock said, tossing one of John's arms over his shoulder to hold him up. "Come on, she's gone now."

The detective ended up half-dragging the wizard's weight as John remained too dizzy to stand. Sherlock could feel his respect for his boyfriend tripling. Even with his hands pressed tight against his ears, the banshee's terrible scream had made him double over in agony. John, who had banished the foul being with a powerful thrust of his wand, did not have such a luxury and bore the brunt of the attack. As such, he was still partly unconscious and delirious by the time Sherlock recovered from his ordeal. Sherlock wondered if his hearing was all right.

And so here they were: side by side, limping down the grassy path with no direction and little motivation. Sherlock would stop every so often to adjust his hold on John as the wizard slowly gathered his bearings. They hadn't reached another fork, and Sherlock was grateful. He didn't know how much more they could take. He only hoped his brother wasn't lying dead somewhere else in the maze. He adjusted John's weight again and grunted, pulling him along.

Ten minutes later, John uttered his first coherent word: "Sherl'ck." Sherlock let him lean against a wall to gather his bearings. John shut his eyes tight and reopened them, looking around blearily. He still looked like a drunk man as he blinked at Sherlock. Sherlock waited with uncharacteristic patience. He rubbed the older man's cheek.

It was another scream entirely that seemed to awaken them both. It wasn't deadly, as with the banshee's, yet by the way Sherlock's blood turned cold and John gasped, it was equally as terrible. It was the sound of a man being tortured. The two of them met eyes and could read the dread in each others' faces. Sherlock started to follow the voice. John followed, struggling to meet his pace.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, speedwalking down the path. John stumbled into the wall a little, adding to the distance between them. He could still hear Sherlock shouting for his brother as the terrible screams continued.

Sherlock continued along the path. He watched with disbelief as up ahead, an archway opened. He dashed toward it. He barely registered John's voice calling to him in the distance as he ran to his brother's aid. "Mycroft-"

"Hi."

If Sherlock's blood had gone cold with the sound of Mycroft's screams, it was like ice now. His head whipped to the side and his eyes rested upon the newcomer. Jim Moriarty smiled and shrugged at his bewilderment.

"Jim," Sherlock greeted, turning so that he was facing the man.

"You know, Sherlock, there was something fascinating about you when I first laid eyes on you," Jim said. "All that power in that head of yours, focused so completely on me. I almost didn't want to leave. It made me feel all tingly inside!"

"You're behind all this," Sherlock stated.

"Well, what were you expecting? Your brother doesn't have my taste in yardwork, I'm afraid."

"Where is Mycroft?"

Jim shrugged, flashing his teeth in a grin. "I dunno. Maybe big brother is finally dead. It has been awfully quiet for a minute now-"

Sherlock didn't register the bang. He didn't register the ringing in his ears. For a moment, it was as if Moriarty had frozen in time. His grin remained on his face, but his eyes widened. Sherlock spotted the growing patch of red on Jim's prized Westwood. And then the criminal disappeared.

"Sherlock-" John groaned.

Now, Sherlock could hear the ringing in his ears, only so that he could hear his own scream of horror. His arm was raised, hand holding a gun that wasn't his. The owner of the firearm stood across from him, eyes wide in pain and betrayal. Sherlock stared as the spot of blood drowned the color of John's favorite jumper. John took a step back, away from him, and stumbled. The fog cleared where the body landed, and Sherlock began to run to him.

He tried to run to him.

He couldn't run to him. Instead, he struggled against an invisible barrier. Something held his waist fast from behind, and he was helpless against it. Sherlock shouted for John to get up. The blood pounded in his ears, the sound mixing with his cries. He almost didn't hear the voice.

"-j'st a spell- Sh'lock- 'M here-" He felt the vice around his middle tug and turn him, so that he would face a wall instead of his fiance. He let out a cry, starting to struggle, until he noticed something odd about the body.

It was moving. The limbs elongated. Hair darkened. John's face reconstructed itself. It was no longer John.

"What the hell-" Sherlock could hear himself breathe. His own eyes looked up at him in blind accusation. That was his own face, his body lying on the ground. And Sherlock could feel the barrier around his waist tighten.

"J'st a spell... Just a spell," John said, his breath hot against the back of Sherlock's neck. And oh, suddenly Sherlock could register his surroundings again. It was John that held him tight around the waist. John was shielding him away from that thing, whatever it was that obviously wasn't Sherlock, dead on the ground. John shuddered. "It's a boggart. It shows us our worst fears. You… you were afraid of Moriarty for a moment, Sherlock. It used him, and then it gave you what you feared most."

"You," Sherlock breathed. "Dead. I killed you."

"You thought you did. Riddikulus."

Sherlock watched, morbidly fascinated, as his "corpse" remained the same, but the clothes began to change. The cut of his jacket altered itself and lightened in color. His trousers began to shorten and knit together.

Sherlock nearly choked on air. The fake Sherlock, while still playing dead, was wearing the most gaudy pink outfit Sherlock had ever seen. It coordinated with Jennifer Wilson's, from their first case together. Sherlock could hear John fighting hysteria behind him.

"Go ahead and laugh, John," he muttered, and John lost it. Sherlock cracked a smile, listening to John's cackle. They were in such a mad situation, it helped to laugh.

The corpse seemed to twitch at their laughter. Sherlock watched as it convulsed on the ground, and turned to dust. A wall parted, forming an archway. John's laughter ebbed. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Let's go," John said, smiling softly. "We have to find Mycroft."

AN: I don't know if any of my original readers (besides Old Ping Hai) are still reading this.