Hi, I promised to finish this story a long time ago. Well, I am back... Hope you like it. Rapalacha

Sometimes the world seems disconnected from you. Sometimes you look around and you hear people talking and see them passing but it feels like they are all behind thick glass and everything you hear and see is somehow surreal.

That's exactly how John felt. This can't be real. He was standing in corner of a modern operating room trying not to get into anyone's way. The only part of his friend visible under the operating sheets and machines was his face. He watched it for a long time, suddenly realising it was the only thing in the whole room he could really concentrate on. His subconscious mind noted and understood every move the surgical team made, he even noticed every little change on the ECG and heard every sound of the ventilator, which made Sherlock breathe. But he wasn't able to tear his sight off the pale face on the table. He must be missing something. But what?

"John... John?...John?" He felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder and finally looked up to see kind and concerned eyes of OR nurse Claire Stepehenson.

"John, Dr. Smith is about to close now. It's very unlikely there will be any more complication. I am going to take you out and buy you a coffee and we will watch the rest of the surgery from the gallery. Come on."

John was lethargic, deep in thoughts, and he let himself been led out to the scrub-room. He didn't border to change, he just got ridd of the mask, gloves and cap and simply wore his white coat over the scrubs. In that exact moment his pocket vibrated. He reached in and found his phone.

How is our friend doing? Not enjoying my game as usually, is he? JM

If it was possible for John's blood to litteraly froze in his veins, it would have happened in this moment. He stared at the little screen not seeing the words of the text message but reading : I poisoned Sherlock, Best sincerely, Moriarty, instead.

Once he has recovered from the shock, he quickly typed:

What have you done to him?

The device vibrated again.

Oh, that's not fair. You are cheating and cheating is bad. I am not telling you. JM

John felt like fainting from the rush of anger and adrenaline and managed to type only one world back, not that it would really matter but still:

Why?

I was bored. And I just had this great IDEA! JM

Another OR nurse chose this moment to enter the scrub-room and she handed John a small cooling box. The samples of tissue from Sherlock's biopsy. He took it and ran, coffee-break completely forgotten.

"Are you sure, John? I mean, you're under great amount of pressure, maybe you...I don't know...don't take me wrong...but maybe you missunderstood, somehow." Lestrade's voice was tired, but John recognised the tone - it was the tone detective inspector used when speaking to grieving and confused families of a victim.

"I didn't." John simply stated and continued to stare out through the window. He saw a part of 's hospital's court yard and a little garden. It was a nice sunny day and a lot of patients were outside chatting with their families on the benches or just walking around enjoying some fresh air. There was also a small group of kids playing hopscotch.

"John, Moriarty is dead. He could not have poisoned Sherlock." Lestrade said, his soothing tone now enritched by slight irritation and hopelessness.

"No, He is not."

"Oh my God, Mycroft. You scared me to death! Why do you sneake in like this?" DI cried out jumping from his chair.

"How is he doing, John?" Mycroft asked and walked over to Sherlock's bed. John didn't need to turn around and look at the monitors. He knew all the numbers exactly. He continued to stare blankly outside while he answered.

"Critical, but stable for now." John said still facing the window and Mycroft nodded, more for himself, than anyone. He slowly, almost hesitantly, stretched his hand and placed his palm on Sherlock cheek. It was warm, unnaturally hot, actually.

"Wait, what?" Lestrade said, clever enough not to complain he was being ignored by Mycroft. The latter slowly turned to face the DI and began methodically examining his own palm as if he saw it for the first time in his life.

"I am afraid it is true, detective inspector. Moriarty indeed is not dead. At least not in the common sense of the word." Mycroft said.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Lestrade cried and run his hand through his hair.

One, two, three...one, two, three...one, two, three...Children on the yard were still deep in the game of Hopscotch and John watched them, fascinated. Game. Rules. Excitement. Rivals. Winner. Looser. Game. One, two,three...One, two, three...Everything Moriarty says has its purpose. One, two, three...It is a game and he is giving clues. He must be missing something. But what? One, two, three...He must be missing something and it's close. Somewhere in the Hopscotch. He must be missing something.

"Moriarty faked his own death." Mycroft replied, his usual calmness melting away.

"Wait, I thought Sherlock did! Why isn't anybody talking to me, ever?" Lestarde exploded.

"Because you are just an ordinary policeman and you have no idea.."

"Oh come on, Mycroft. You know that Sherlock is my friend, something you will never have. He hates you."

"Once in a lifetime..." But Mycroft's thread stayed unfinished, because the out-of-the-window-starring John suddenly yelled and both men stayed still and silent.

Something in the Hopscotch, something in the game. He must be missing something. But he can't concentrate. The two prats are babling like housewifes. He needs more...more...

"Shut up!" John exploded. He needs more ideas. Ideas? IDEAS!

"OH!"

This was an unmistakable sound of a completed deduction, mystery solved, case finished.