***Author's Note***

This chapter is a flashback to the meeting that set "Dante" into motion. You may recognize the initial construct, as I relied on the meeting that takes place between John and Mycroft before John meets Sherlock at Bart's in TRF. This chapter is also the first in a three chapter arc that will focus largely on John's POV, and most of the non-flashback action will run concurrently with the action in the two previous chapters, "Rend: A Wound Reopened" and "Rend: Bleeding Out."

DIOGENES CLUB

"So this," tone exuding a dangerous calm, John flipped through the pages of the gossip rag. It was all a show, a put on for his audience, the British Government, who would have certainly noticed the white knuckled, tremulous grip with which he held the sheets, betraying his true emotions. He had no need to actually read the fabrications and distortions printed there, in black and white bold print with the sensational full color photos, intended to vilify and discredit Sherlock; he'd already read it. All of it. Practically memorized it. He had bloody well been present for the most recent accounts. "This is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it? 'Watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'"

"I don't expect you to understand, Doctor Watson." With narrowed eyes and fingertips pressed together menacingly in front of him, Mycroft leaned slightly forward, just enough to establish his dominance in the matter.

"Try me." The corner of John's mouth ticked up almost imperceptibly, and he slapped the crumpled newspaper down on the arm of the chair. The two sat in silence, Mycroft's icy glare ineffective against John's relentless determination.

"People such as James Moriarty, individuals with potential, we watch them. We pick them out of the mindless masses, and we learn about them. We know... everything. Moriarty was given the opportunity to choose a side. As we all were." Smoothing the front of his waistcoat, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, crossed his right leg over his left, and assumed an imperious expression as he let the full meaning of his statement penetrate.

Mycroft relished, truly savored, the moment recognition dawned. Brows furrowed, John broke eye contact, and blinking rapidly, in what Mycroft could only classify as cognizant horror, he drew a shuddering breath. "S-so... So what? You abducted him too? Did you interrogate him? Offer to pay him? Threaten him? Did... Did you torture him to try to turn him? This is clearly no longer about some damn computer code." Balling his hands into tight fists in his lap, John turned his face back, eyes dark with something formidable, inching toward treacherous. He quirked his mouth into the tight lipped, perilous, almost smile; a clear challenge.

Humming his acknowledgement, Mycroft nodded once. "Very good, Doctor. These things are always easier when both parties exercise restraint. And that you display a modicum of intelligence in the matter only proves what I've recognized all along..."

"Moriarty," John growled. "We're talking about Moriarty. About the fact that you sold your brother to the devil, and for what? So he'd pick your team? What sort of demented games are you playing here, Mycroft?"

"A gross oversimplification." Mycroft tsk'd.

"You fed him Sherlock's life story. Allowed him to publish this..." John snatched up the newspaper and tossed it at Mycroft's feet, the pages scattering haphazardly. "One big lie - Sherlock's a fraud - and people will swallow it because the rest is true. Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock, and you wanted a pawn for some sadistic human chess match, so you gave him the perfect ammunition. You let him go free, just so he could play villain. And you..." The rage that had been ratcheting up, roiling in the space just beneath his sternum, seized, the weight of it dropping like lead, dense and terrible, to his gut with the onslaught of alarming insight. John couldn't stop his hand from clutching his chest, trying to reach the abrupt hollow ache there. "Oh god. You've lost control of the situation. You had him and you let him go. Bloody hell." Enumerating an impressive catalogue of vulgarities, he took his time regaining his internal center. John stood then, falling naturally to parade rest, released a deep breath and willed his faltering legs to support his weight. "You utter bastard." He pulled his mobile from his pocket and brought up Sherlock's number.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. John." John flinched at the lethal inflection placed on his name. "You'll not complete that call. Sherlock must never know of this conversation. There is much more at stake here than either of you realize at this time. Perhaps you'd rather sit."

"I'm fine, ta." Crossing his arms over his chest, John maintained his unwavering stand, still clinging to the mobile in his, unsurprisingly, tremor free hand.

"I must insist..." With a hasty flick of his wrist, Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and smiled a shark-like, disdainful smile. The door behind John opened and closed softly. He distinctly heard a lock being set. A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and guided him efficiently back to the chair he had vacated. With little time to even grunt in protest, John's mobile was forced from his hand, and the armed man in the expensive suit took up post just behind his right shoulder.

"Damn it, Mycroft. What are you about?" Seething, John struggled to reign in his erratic breathing.

"Moriarty's network is very real, very far reaching. What is at stake is the opportunity to shut it down. Destroy it for good. Your comparison to a chess board is apt. Even as we speak, an attack is in motion, and a counter attack is already set." Mycroft drummed the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his chair as he considered John. With just a look to the man in the suit, a sleek black box was retrieved from a shelf and placed on the small table to Mycroft's left. With excruciatingly deliberate movement, Mycroft opened the box to reveal a chess set. He took his time setting up the board. "In chess, as you may know, a sacrifice can be made for tactical or positional gain. Said sacrifice is often a deliberate exchange of a chess piece of higher value for an opponent's piece of lower value." He tipped over the white queen he'd so carefully just placed.

"What have you done?" Shaking his head in denial, John rasped, panic etched on his face.

"It's simple. The board is set. Play has been manipulated so that Moriarty sees only two possible outcomes. With one move he will be set to take three opposing pieces; Martha Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and yourself..." Mycroft tipped over two white pawns, and picked up a third, allowing it to roll languidly in his palm. He graciously paused his explanation as John recovered himself after a stunned gasp. "Obviously that result is unsatisfactory for my brother. He is therefore prepared to sacrifice himself..."

"What? No! We have to... I have to stop him. I can stop him..." Frantic, John moved to stand. The large hand clamped down on his shoulder and held him in place. "Please, Mycroft. Please. He can't. He can't, I won't let him. Let. Me. Go." He turned and shouted the last bit at the man restraining him.

"Doctor Watson, please calm down. I believe you misunderstand. While the first move will most assuredly result in the aforementioned deaths, Sherlock's sacrifice will merely appear to result in his death. With this sacrifice, he will see to ensuring Moriarty's demise, and will be afforded the freedom to track down and eliminate every part of his network. Though to the outside world, he must be believed to be dead, it is his only guarantee of safety."

"How long?" Wary, John watched as Mycroft continued to toy with the pawn in his hand.

"Months. Possibly years. However long it takes." Mycroft made a noncommittal gesture and John's shoulder was released.

"I'll go with him. We can do more together. Divide the work." John was pleading, very near begging.

"Impossible. Your presence would draw attention. You would both be killed within the first week. In Sherlock's mind this is his only option, this fictitious death and self-imposed exile, as he is unwilling to see you, and to a lesser degree the others, perish in earnest. He put no effort into making the decision. You should be honored. He esteems you very highly." Mycroft's smug grin failed to mask the fact that he had not yet divulged all.

John pressed a fist to his mouth in order to stifle the sob that threatened. He inhaled deeply and scrutinized Mycroft. "You... you said Moriarty only saw two possible moves. Sherlock... He believes him. But you..." John narrowed his eyes and pointed at Mycroft. "I've seen you spar with Sherlock often enough to recognize you've got another play in mind..."

"There is another move. A preemptive strike, if you will." Mycroft stood and buttoned his suit coat. He avoided making eye contact with John. "What is it that you would be willing to sacrifice in order to save my brother, Doctor Watson?"

Glancing behind him at the guard, John very cautiously stood as well, his hands clenched at his sides. "What do you have in mind?"

"A misdirect. Both Moriarty and Sherlock proceed according to the original plan. Then you strike. You will sacrifice yourself in Sherlock's place, though once again this will be an act. The entire world, Sherlock included, will believe you to have died. But in so doing, we will have all the pieces in place to eliminate Moriarty, protect Sherlock, DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock will be free to pursue Moriarty's network, and you will be placed in a position to aid in that pursuit using other avenues." Mycroft flashed a devious grin at John as he reset the board, with the exception of the one pawn still in his hand.

"But, Sherlock..."

"Cannot know. This only works if he remains unaware of your survival."

"You've already made the arrangements, haven't you?" John scrubbed his hand over his face.

"Preparations are currently under way. If you're amenable, we can move to a more secure locale, where you will be briefed..."

"Damn it. Damn it, Mycroft. You just needed a pawn to take the fall. All this time. I've only just been another pawn for you to trifle with. Such a fool." John cleared his throat and attempted to blink away the burning in his eyes, his voice was soft with an air of defeat. "I don't see that I have any other choice in the matter."

"Oh now, Doctor Watson, don't disparage your importance in this advance. This will truly be your finest moment." With an unsettling giddiness, Mycroft placed the pawn on the board and turned to lead the way to another door. He motioned for John to follow. "Imagine, pawn to king four."

John noted the position of the pawn, E4, and the placement seemed heartrendingly significant. "Tha-that's not checkmate. That's not the endgame." Sounding only slightly less hysterical than he actually felt, John glanced at the chess board, grabbed Mycroft by the arm and turned him so that they were facing. "This is... We're ending the games here and now, right? Pawn to king four is an opening move... That's not what you meant to say. You meant to say checkmate, yeah?"

"With your involvement, the game has taken a new trajectory. A pawn that has not previously been in play cannot expect to take the king with its first move." Mycroft glared at the hand on his arm until John relented and released him.

John drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His demeanor settled into one of cautious resignation. When he next spoke it was with the same dangerous calm from before. "You guarantee Moriarty will be eliminated. We're taking the king?"

Mycroft sneered, his tone reticent. "Moriarty will be eliminated." Inhaling deeply, Mycroft straightened his shoulders.

Taking the king will be another matter entirely.