The boys upstairs

Choice

As soon as the screen cuts you start to protest violently, but your words come out in a sick jumble.

"John seriously I would never... it's a fake he's edited it or something... you have to believe me I didn't... I love that little girl!" You shout but his eyes are pressed firmly together as he fights to remain in control. Sherlock steps in between you, waiting for the verdict. Finally after what seems like an age, John holds up his hand against your ramblings and you are silent. When he speaks it it with an aged and broken voice that has seen a thousand woes.

"(Y/n)... I know"

You look fearfully at Sherlock who shakes his head, urging you to stay quiet. John clears his throat and bites his lip.

"I know... you. And you... wouldn't. Do that I mean"

You breathe out and lean against the wall, still too frightened to approach him. Sherlock however steps closer to his friend. When John makes no reaction, he receives a tight squeeze around the arm from Sherlock. Their eyes meet and you are struck with the inappropriate idea that you are interrupting. You look down instinctively and ignore their silent conversation, bitter and bruised already. But not burned.

"(Y/n)?"

You look up and John stands as you sway in turmoil. You had no right to react like this, to need comfort yourself yet here you were, distraught by what you had seen your identical twin do to Rosie. You inhale sharply and John extends his hand. You take a step then pause. When he doesn't move either you step again, and again and again until you are right in front of him. Stupid tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you stare at the hurt behind his own.

"I'm sorry- I just-" you start but he squeezes your hands suddenly.

"I know you wouldn't" he says almost calmly and you exchange a small smile.

"Right" says Sherlock suddenly and you both jump apart as he strolls back to the screen, which buzzes to life once more. Perhaps his timing was spontaneous, or perhaps he knew that yours and John's mental strength was dwindling with every passing second. You don't have time to decide before Jim is back, clapping sarcastically with that cruel grin he likes to sport when he plays his favourite games. You were always his favourite game.

"Oh very well done, you know I was a little anxious that you were going to kill my little sister for a moment there Doctor Watson- anyway I'm glad you didn't, this next game is for her" he says and your blood runs cold. You don't have time to fear before a white box rises from the floor. You and John step back while Sherlock steps forward curiously.

"Now now Sherlock I know you're curious but this gift isn't for you" scolds Moriarty and you wince at the word 'gift'.

"(Y/n) my dear, step forward" he says sweetly and you oblige, not daring to make him wait. "Inside the box you will find a choice. It's a simple one really, if you're planning on being smart about it. Mark yourself as a permanent member of the family, or leave it forever" he says and you digest these words, turning them over and over in your head. You step again and feel a hand seize your wrist. You look back into the calculating blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes and raise your eyebrows. He slowly lets go and you take a deep breath, leaning down and removing the lid.

Inside lies a handgun and a scalpel. You touch neither.

"And... and if I don't pick?" You whisper, knowing he can hear you.

A hot electric sensation shoots down your arm and you shriek, hearing similar cries behind you. Jim doesn't bother to speak, you have your answer.

Slowly, you pick both up and look between them as the screen once again cuts to black. Facing the boys, they meet your worried eyes with questioning looks.

"I don't understand" says John finally and Sherlock frowns.

"'Or leave it forever...' that's the gun" says Sherlock sincerely. You nod and grip both a little tighter in your clammy palms.

"And the..." John can't even say it.

"'Mark yourself as part of the family'... he wants me to write it. Moriarty. A permanent reminder on my arm like he has"

Your photographic memory was not needed for this, he took every opportunity to display it on his own forearm, white slices showing his commitment. You had always hated it.

They watch you carefully but you've decided. With surpassingly steady hands you click the safety off. There is a cry as they both run towards you, but you had been expecting it. Without hesitation the gun is at your temple and they both freeze.

"(Y/n) love-" starts John, adopting the manner of a weary parent asking their child to behave.

"No" you say "I won't do it. I mean it. I'd rather die"

"Than what?" Says Sherlock quietly and you lip your lips.

"He wants me to mark my arm, to write our name so it is there forever. I won't ever be able to escape it, the Moriarty name- he'll be with me always. " they exchange glances and adjust your grip. "I'd rather die" You repeat.

"(Y/n) please" starts John but Sherlock cuts him off

"Then he'll win"

You turn your eyes incredulously to him and he relaxes, looking almost indifferent. "If you kill your self now- then he's won. You've done his job for him"

"In what way would he win-"

"You're playing exactly into his hands. Honestly I thought you were smarter. It would seem even I mistakes occasinally"

He smiles genially and you fight the urge to slap him. Was he really standing here accusing you of stupidity? It was bravery that held the gun to your head, not stupidity.

"Asshole" You mutter in disbelief and John shrugs slightly. In the second it takes you to register John's reaction, you have been knocked to the ground with the force of a small car while you shriek, both weapons sent flying as Sherlock pins you to the floor, scuffles and scrapes telling you John has collected the weapons. You snarl like a feral animal but Sherlock literally lies on you, and his strength is simply too much. You both breathe heavily while he utters commands throatily.

"John get the Scalpel"

"We're going to need a tourniquet-"

There is a loud ripping noise and a small shift in weight as your left arm is free, the belt from presumably Sherlock's long coat being bound and tightened around your upper arm. You shriek again, pure adrenaline giving you slight lift but now John is here, pressing on your hand and rolling up your sleeve.

"Do you know how to do it?" Demands Sherlock, panting with the effort of holding you down. Noises of rage and terror you weren't aware you could make escape your lips but they are relentless. John nods quickly, pale and holding the scalpel above your wrist, hovering over past stories you didn't want to share.

"Ready?" Huffs Sherlock, releasing one hand to bundle a corner of his jacket and stick it in your mouth to bite down on. He takes a glance down at you and you watch the lack of emotion saying every pain he feels. This was truly killing him.

"Ready" blanches John, voice shaky as he makes the first cut.