I awoke to my phone going off on Sherlock's bed a few feet away from mine own. My eyes collected the window of the calm, cold hotel room being left open, and air floated with the blackest of night breezes. I squinted at my mobile, my eyes reading the screen in blurs of rapid blinking and head shaking. It was Sherlock's number. He was calling me. I stared quizzically it for a second. Sherlock never calls when he can text. Must be important. Which probably means no breakfast.

The clock beside me corrected me. It wasn't really even morning yet. Or well, myversion of morning, anyway. It was only 5: 13 am. Explains why it was so dark. But it also stirred something panicky inside of my chest. It meant that Sherlock still hadn't come back from the theater.

"Dammit Sherlock," I muttered as I threw myself out of bed, and then made my way over to Sherlock's bed. It was spotlessly made, (probably never even been slept in yet) and I snatched it up. I'm now rooming literally five feet away from the man, and I've seen yet to see him asleep. How does he do it?

"Hello?" I croaked.

"John!" Sherlock began, excited, and breathless. "It's just incredible, he's here! I've found him! You have to come at once! To the theater—bring your gun! The mur—"

Beep. Beep. Beep.The line went dead.

Dammit Sherlock!

I raced down to the Opera House, taking in the particular dull glow of the dawn that had just started in through the magnificent windows of the Main Hall. I slammed the doors shut behind me, my heart going wild in my chest. I clutched my mobile in my hand hard, dialing Sherlock's number and holding it to my ear. I noticed that the light behind me seemed to fail at reaching very far, and soon the marble cut pillars of the hundreds of years before casted shadows too overpowering for the careless reflection of light. Sherlock's phone continued to be the only sound that followed me as I stepped away from the doors and away from all the light that had once warmed the back of my shirt.

Telling myself that I wasn't stalling, I strapped my shoulder bag tighter and circled the perimeter of the hall, focusing on breathing evenly, memorizing the many other doors and windows to stop our target at any chance of escape. What did I have in there? My gun, general medical supplies. A translation book. Yup, prepared as always when it comes to Sherlock's major finds. Sherlock still didn't pick up, and when I checked for a proper signal, I noticed that my phone read out to me to be 5:23 in morning. Eleven minutes since Sherlock's call. I tried again.

Click.

"Sherlock," I practically growled his name. "What have you done?"

A short pause of two seconds. The phone's silence struck me odd.

"Sherlock?" I whispered, the confusion no longer present. I gave my phone a shake, checking the connection and if it was faulty once more. My screen read out to me that we were still fully connected, but I still couldn't hear a thing.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The silence of the phone seemed to burn my ears, and I felt a sudden pressure as I realized I was grinding the side of my head into the receiver. That was it;my knees felt weak as I found myself madly rushing for the house doors before my mind even considered why. The double doors flew open with a tremulous bang that collided against the vertical row of seats. The cushions, quivering from the impact, seemed to be applauding me like ghostly patrons anxiously awaiting a morning performance.

The dark theater sent a slight rush up my spine, and I hung up my mobile to dial Sherlock once more. My hand scratched through my bag, hot and steady as I felt the smooth, cold graze of mental. I pulled it out discreetly and cocked it, facing its barrel straight into the darkness. I marched the ails, my eyes taughted by the passing shadows as I continued to stare down the seemly staggering distance from my body to the stage. I kept blinking, forcing myself to look at the smallest patches of flashing light, but it was no use—my eyes just couldn't adjust fast enough from the bright dawn of my walk before. To distract myself, I tried Sherlock's mobile again.

The dialing of the electric buttons seemed extremely loud to my ears, practically making me jump. I held my breath, my strides coming to a halt.

Ring…

My brows furrow. The sound seemed to not just be radiating from the mobile's speakers. I glanced up, backwards, disorientated.

Ring…

My eyes looked forward, finally zeroing in. It was now that I understood. I slowly lowered the phone from my ear, my gun rising up in synchronization and moved slowly towards the ringtone, echoing from the stage. It seemed to take an eternity before I reached the steps, my throat pinhole tight, my entire body too tense, too nervous to keep a level head.

This was bad.

This was so very, very bad.

At my feet, at the center of the stage, was Sherlock's phone.

I hung up and the rush of still, sudden silence made my heart skip recklessly. Sherlock wasn't picking up because…

He wasn't here.

Sherlock wasn't here.

I closed my eyes, nearly dropping to my knees with relief, but every nerve in my body steeled itself and held me up. Sherlock, his stupid, ridiculous, unplanning arse self was safe, thank God.I quickly rose up my gun, pointing it towards the darkness of the left wing, and slowly traced it to the right. This was trap. Of course this was a trap. A trap set from mental, over-thinking, protective arse me. But I certainly was not going to let this bastard think that I was completely done in by a trick of a mobile.

"All right," I kept my voice low, and aggressive. "You're got me. I'm here." My finger pulled slightly at the trigger. "But who are you?"

Who are you—who are you—who are you…who are you…my words reverberated from somewhere deep underneath me in a soft, nearly inaudible whisper. I glanced down quickly, only to refocus my stare as a glowing red light beamed at me from the darkness to my right. It blinked out from a second, only to reappear closer towards me. My aim instantly locked on it, and the flowing colour seemed to stop, and fade—then it blinked out completely, and was gone.

I took a step forward, and suddenly a fury of what seemed to be myriad voices lifted themselves from the wood, the ceiling, and the seats, falling and rising and bombarding my ears with such a shock that I couldn't even hear my own gasp.

"That fan Sherlock Holmes is right," The voices whispered, glittering from the lights on the ceiling, echoing from the cambers to my left, and the floorboards that creaked beneath me. "You are very much like a dog. Like a pet. Loyal. But humans are naturally loyal…"- one voice cried, but a another took over:

"And besides, he lacks organization, elegance…class. You do not need explosions to create fear—or at least, fear for one person!"

" -You aren't some stray—you're more like a toy. Just a thing!"

"W-what?" I managed out, although I couldn't hear my own voice, just my lips frantically mouthing the word. So many voices, so many different people at once…I could only catch every other word… Explosions?...Moriarty?...

My head started to pound, my knees shook. I couldn't think—I fought to breathe. My legs began to give way under the sudden weight of a hundred voices thundering in my skull.

"…But still, he fails to see the truth; The best fear is when only a select few know of it…not an entire police station…not a city full of people…no…when it's just you, and me, and time. You'll never know when it's coming. You just know that I control everything."

I resisted covering my ears, as if that would stop it all. It felt so ungodly loud, so deep…almost like it was coming within me.

"-A broken toy, from what I've discovered."

Someone cried above me. "So very broken…but that is the art of…" a second voice…"And why does he want you? What is that need?" A third…"Who am I?" Someone whispered into my left ear. "Who are you?" A scream from below me…

"—But I can fix that!" A final voice whispered again, straining my ear and draining down my neck muscles, my head tight as a vice. I was clutching my head, nearly one my side, my balance off, my vision spinning. What was happening to me? How is this happening?

Before me, I managed to zero in on footsteps—thick, and careful as they shook the floor boards' beneath me. It was dark, too unnaturally dark to make it out: but someone was coming for me. I forced myself to think through my confusion—my head was silent once more, only my nerves were fried. I pulled my gun and from my side and brought out a second hand to study my aim. I wouldn't miss.

My breathing was the only sound I could hear as it pulled dry air into my lungs, placing too much pressure onto my ribcage. My hands were shaking so matter how tightly I pulled them together. I couldn't swallow. A chill ran from the top of my hair, down my spine, to my legs. Somewhere in stage right, a fog machine roared to life, making me jump and the air became damp and misty, and burned each time I swallowed. Soon, I wouldn't be able to see at all, not even darkness. Just a choking, hyperventilating mist.

But that didn't matter.

A shadow fell over me from above, although I could just make out the frame of a tall, angular looking man. He continued to walk—no, glide towards me—something else was trailing the ground…a jacket…a coat? I nearly called for Sherlock, I don't know why. As my heart beat counted out the precious seconds between me and my possible death, I could only think how it might be him.

I raised my gun again, my arms suddenly steady. Suddenly ready to die, or to live. I don't know. In the facial region, that same bright red light as before blinked back on. I shivered as I continued to stare at it, feeling memorized like a rodent to a snake. I nearly pulled my finger all the way down on the trigger before the shadow spoke: saying the only words that would make me think twice.

"…You're not scared, are you John?"

It was Sherlock's voice. Sherlock's exactwords to me.

I gasped franticly, my aim going everywhere. How? How was this possible? Was it Sherlock? Do I shoot? It couldn't be…It was….it was unbelievable. It was impossible! It—it was unreal.

"Oh, come on," The shadow snapped again in Sherlock's unmistakably annoyed tone, the red light blinking. "Don't be so easily impressed like the rest of those lemmings. It's very easy to do, really, just down a few octaves. His voice is rather deep, isn't it? Very easy to match his pitch though—he talks a lot, doesn't he? Get up, don't drabble like rat. The center stage is for men that don't mind pressure. And I know youdon't mind pressure."

"Who are you?" I lifted onto my knee, and then finally, onto my feet, ready for a fight with this shadowy man. I was surprised he let me get this far, although I did have the advantage of a gun. But something told me that my gun wasn't the reason he was keeping his distance.

He was standing there because he just wanted to.

"John Watson," The murderer answered, his voice suddenly changing into a close rendition of my own voice, like he had stolen my vocal cords. "Ah, well, as even your mundane ears can presumably hear, I need more work on yourvoice."

There was snap from his direction, and I rolled out of the way of a blinding flash of a spot light that flooded where we were standing, and then quickly stared to dim into darkness. I remained in the shadows, constantly moving, but the man before me refused to move. I memorized what I could of him as the darkness fell once more. He was tall—and I was right in my brain to think of Sherlock—because he certainly did look like him. He wore a long, trailing, water-proof coat that lay twisted and compounded across his narrow shoulders. Thin, long legs. His black shoes shined in the light, and he had gloves that cut of at the knuckles, leaving behind nothing but what I could only make out be skeletal fingers. His arms lay still, guarded by his coat. He had proper dress-pants that were ripped at the ankle and led up his leg, only to be carefully sown together with what I could only guess was….some type of wire.His belt was leather, sown with dots of little red gems stones. I couldn't see any part of his face—all the light was gone by now. Once more, that red beam of light from his facial area continued to glow.

I heard him take a short inhale of breath just before I pulled my hands over my ears, too late to mentally brace for what was coming. The voices from before entered into my skull in a fury of screams, arguments and casual conversation. I clenched my fists, unable to comprehend anything that was going on—and I opened my mouth to scream:

"STOP!"

Surprisingly. Silence. They did.

"I will honour a man's last request," The murderer's voice came from behind me. I refused to let that head-trip happen again, and I made a mad dash for a random wing, unsure of my direction now. I felt the cold, golden knob of a door, and tried to brace it open. Of course, it was locked. I spun around, and desperately cross center stage—only to jump back and nearly fall as I caught myself running towards the only source of light I could see: that burning red glow.

It finally crashed on me. I knew that glow. I knew that glow! I had seen it in Raoul's opera box! I had seen moving through the dark, sparking around corners as I moved through the night with Sherlock. I knew that glow. I kept repeating it dumbly to myself in my mind, unable to stop. I knew that glow…I knew that glow…

I stopped running, and could only stare dumbly at the shadows before me, grateful for the sudden gift of silence that had found its way into my head. I felt alone, solitary for the moment. Another snap, the lights flickered again, and in that disorienting flash I felt something swoosh by me. I could only recognized the next sound from my years of medical school as I heard the opening of a mouth and the exhale of a soft blow of air. A sharp pain licked the side of my head, my eyes striking shut in surprise. When I opened them again, the light was gone.

I looked all around me pointlessly.

"I can tell you are not a fan of the older arts. But how about the garbage on television now a days? Are you familiar with movies?"

His voice floated above me now, and spiraled down from the towering beams that held the sandbags. I caught a fleeting piece of memory of when I had watched the sandbag fall and nearly hit Carlotta. I craned my neck up as I fought to keep my gun straight. The ceiling staring to spin, like he had damaged my inner-ear with just a puff of air. I didn't answer—and so he prompted forward.

"Then guess where this is from: 'Want to see a magic trick?'"

The voice was…behind me now?

"Moriarty?" I gasped—turning left—turning right—Dammit, where was that voice coming from? He couldn't possibly?

"Oh please, Doctor Watson," The voice hushed. I swear I felt something brush past me again, connecting to my shoulder, hitting its scars with fine, cold air. "I consider myself a master of all trades. Even I know how to avoid a gun."

Despite my clenched fists, adrenaline lining my muscles, gauging for a fight, I shivered.

"You're running everything I am, boy!" The shadows hissed, coming from the floor, the ceiling, and the walls! It seemed to come for nowhere and yet everywhere at once. Like my mind had been blown open and an intruder had stormed inside. "But yet, you are not the one I want! Holmes! I will make you give him to me! You WILL give up that comfort which controls! I have warned him! YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR FRIEND AGAIN!"

Nervous from my pervious captures involving someone wanting the man, I swiftly corrected him.

"I am Sherlock Holmes!"

"Silence! Do you take me for a fool, doctor? Silence, silence! You may prefer a gun, but I prefer a more intimate death," Rough arms were suddenly about my throat—strong, calloused—or was it a rope? Merely seconds of struggling, my world tilted as I did everything I could to break the hold. In my confusion, I pulled down on the trigger, and my gun fired harshly into the floor, narrowly missing my foot.

I pushed my back into the darkened shadows, trying to use my spine to pin him, but nothing was there but bare, cold stone. It was like I was fighting nothing. The grip tightened, my breath squeezing from my lungs. I coughed, letting go of the rope and swinging wildly up— the tips of my fingers catching onto my attacker's weapon. It seemed to do the trick as I pulled down hard, stunning the both of us. I guess he figured no one would bother to fight up.

I slammed the back of my head brutally against the stone wall, the impact far too strong for me to tell if it was cracked open or not. I felt the bile rise to my throat, and instantaneously I rolled to my side and vomited what little food I had managed to eat before Sherlock pulled me away from the previous day.

Oh god, the pain. My vision swam for a moment. I managed to twist a weak arm to grasp the back of my head, feeling the slick, warm wetness that couldn't possibly just be from the slime oozing down the aging walls. Everything was slowing down now, becoming fuzzy. I forced a swallow, tasting my blood. I felt like I was trying to swallow cotton.

When I got to my feet, my attacker did the most usual thing, however.

He began to sing.

It was French, soft, low and my ears were ringing with its power as it bounced off the walls like the shattering of a gun's bullet, and just as deadly. My balanced swayed; I threw my arm out just in time to catch the cold wall. My slight was swirling—my eyes drooped. All I wanted to do was sleep. It sounded fantastic now, like no one in a million years had thought of doing so. As soon as I slid down the wall, and loud booming noise was breaking through to me. Pounding at my skull, as if it was trying to tell me that my idea of sleep was wrong…silly…how could sleep ever be wrong…

Then I gasped as thimble, thin fingers touched at the back of my head, cold and probing. A rough arm gripped my jacket, and I was hauled to my feet, moaning at the impact. What was going on? Why the hell wouldn't anyone let me sleep,God damn it? That same blasting sound, coming from deep within me was still going on, and now it seemed that those hands could touch it. Wonderful…could he make it stop…?

"You have a very strong heart to stop my voice," a small, soft voice breathed into my ear.

That…sound…was my heart beat?

"No one has ever stopped MY voice!" Loud. So fucking loud. His voice seemed to break all barriers of sound as he screamed into my ear. I think I tried to scream back at him, but it was hard enough to keep my eyes open, let alone make out what I was seeing.

Something seemed to stir past my neck like purring of a cat. "But how to stop your heart? You're like a mere children's toy. But sadly…if I took out your batteries, you could cease to be. What a waste, a pure waste, as are most humans. But you're the toy of someone whom I need to have. I have to stop him. So if I must fix you to bring him, I shall."

Light, demure laughter bubbled from this voice, turning, like the floating of a sea, churning and endless. It was a beautiful, remarkable sound…a sound that…that was and yet wasn't just in my head.

Sherlock was right. That voice. It was real. It was so real.

It was going to kill me.

"Then, perhaps, after it all, you shall become my toy…and not that bloody sleuths. When you awaken, you must remember that you belong to me,"

He whispered this, and then something once more entirely in French, so smoothly against my ear, so passionately and tenderly that my eyes shut closed and I wanted nothing but to do what the voice told me. Anything that voice told me—it was making the hurt in my head go away—if not that my heart beating was growing louder, and faster—but I didn't care. Unconscious was pulling me under, his voice like a blanket.

"…You belong to me now, John Watson,"

AN: Well, well, well! Poor John! Guess what guys? That's sadly the end of my 75 page, poorly fixed, awkwardly cut up update! Whew! I shall return! Thank you VERY much for everyone that has enjoyed or review so far! :D