"Keep still, will you?" Moriarty hissed in frustration. "I'm just trying to make you beautiful."

The effects of the drugs were finally wearing off, giving John more command over her body. It wasn't much to go on, when her hands and ankles were cuffed to a chair. She struggled, determined to keep her face out of Moriarty's hands as he tried to apply lipstick on her.

"Hold still, hold still..." He gripped her face tightly, painfully pinching her cheeks inwards to make her lips puff out. He messily applied the lipstick, uncaring if he smeared it.

He appeared to be enjoying himself. He roughly brushed on red blush and stuck pins in her hair. The only time John kept still was when Moriarty applied the masacara. She certainly didn't want to get that in her eye.

He ended the whole beautician session by pulling open the front of her gown and spraying perfume upon her breasts. He held he gown opened for a few seconds longer, long enough to make John turn her head away in embarrasment. With a satisfied hum, he pulled back.

"Oh, Joanna," he mused dreamily. "You're going to make so many men jealous."

John could not stop her body from reacting to his words. She flinched, every muscle tensed with the idea of trauma to come.

She kept looking over to the door of the hotel room, expecting to see Sherlock burst in. Beyond the occasional guard coming in to hand Moriarty handcuffs and the makeup, nobody else has opened that door.

She'll take anybody. Mycroft, Lestrade, hell, even Anderson.

The door opened and despite her mental prayers, two guards walked in, holding guns at their side. Moriarty gestured to John. "Get him up. Make sure his arms are behind his back. Then follow me."

John didn't know why he bothered to refer to her as 'he'. He was probably saving it for later.

The guards unlocked the handcuffs, pulling her to her feet. One of them eyed her cleavage line suspiciously, but made no commentary about it. Just another crossdresser with implants.

They cuffed her hands behind her back. Moriarty smiled approvingly, then stalked out of the room, not bothering to see if they followed.

They didn't give her any shoes. Frankly, John was glad for this. She seriously doubted she could remember how to walk in high heels.

They took her to the lift, each guard holding onto one of her arms. Lightly, John tested the grip of their hold, to see how loose it was. Almost immediately the guards sensed her muscle move and tightened their grip.

They weren't amatuers. If they had just been hired thugs, maybe John could move fast enough, break their hold and run, but not these guys. They would break one of her kneecaps before she got a step away.

Moriarty hummed the whole trip down to the ground floor.

The doors opened, revealing the entire lobby deserted.

Nobody was there, not even the employees. This didn't seem to faze Moriarty and he walked briskly across the empty floor, going towards a closed set of large wooden doors.

He paused before he went through them, turning to John with a grin. "Smile," he murmured sweetly, running a finger across her jaw. "It's your big deput." He shoved opened the doors.

On the side of the door there was a plague, explaning the fire safety codes. Only eight hundred people were allowed in the ballroom. The moment Moriarty opened those doors, more than eight hundred eyes were on her.

John couldn't help it, she tried to wrench herself away and the guards' grip tightened. They roughly pulled her into the room, still following Moriarty down the isle of chairs, passing the men staring her her.

Some she recognized. Many of them were high class politicians John has seen on television. Others were drug warlords, men she only recognized because Sherlock had their pictures on his wall back at the flat. The men she didn't recognize were dressed in suits that were worth more her rent.

All of them were men with great power, money, or influence. Every single one of them could start a small war if they wanted.

They were all blabbering, speaking in languages she couldn't understand. They were pointing at her, gaping at her, throwing her looks of disgust or disbelief. The bits of english she could hear all said the same thing.

"It can't be."

"This is a trick, it has to be."

"Ugly man in a dress, that's all there is..."

Moriarty walked straight to the stage with John trailing behind him. He took his spot besides a podium as the guards positioned John to stand in the middle of the stage. They gave her a harsh squeeze on her arm as warning, then pulled away to take their spot in the background.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Moriarty announced into the microphone. Immediately the voices died down, becoming so quiet John's ears strained from the sudden silence. "I'm so glad you're all here today to witness a birth of a new era. And I do mean 'birth.'"

He gestured to John with a sweep of his arm. "I present to you, for your pleasure, Joanna Watson. Fertile woman."

The room exploded in noise. Everyone was protesting, screaming, literally spitting at him in their anger. The english that could be heard called him a liar, what proof did he have, how dare he and so on.

Moriarty looked like he was having the time of his life.

He did nothing to calm the crowd down. They were all just a step away from rioting and all it needed to start was a single punch. John took a step back away from the edge of the stage, afraid at any moment they would climb on and come after her.

Moriarty grasped her by the shoulders, halting her. His fingers tangled into the fabric of the dress. "Gentlemen!" He cried out to them all, catching their attention.

John gasped out a "No-!"

He ripped at her dress. He pulled down the shoulders straps, tearing at them until they passed her elbows, explosing her front. He then grabbed the front of the dress where the dip sat, ripping in half, pulling violently until the whole dress hanged off her arms in tatters.

He shoved her in between the shoulder blades, pushing her towards the front of the stage.

You could hear a pin drop.

With her arms still cuffed behind her back, she could not cover herself. Every man gaped at her, their eyes roaming over her breasts, her crotch. She dropped down to her knees in vain hope she could hide herself.

"Like I said," Moriarty breathed, patting her on the top of her head. John turned her face away. "A woman. Let the bidding begin at twenty-five million-"

The noise of a single gun shot rang out and the right side of Moriarty's face exploded in a mass of blood and bone. His body stumbled for a moment, collapsed to his knees, then fell over.

The guard lowered his smoking gun.

John scooted herself away from Moriarty's corpse, unable to process what the hell just happened.

The guard pulled out the keys to the handcuffs and kneeled down in front of her. John was startled to see tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know, please forgive me."

He uncuffed her. Once her arms were free, he pulled the remains of the dress around her, tying it off in a rudimentary toga-like shape. He helped her to her feet.

The whole room was still eerily silent. Nobody seemed to care Moriarty was dead on the floor his brains covering the stage. Every eye was still on her.

The guard helped her down the steps, and immediately the crowd parted, letting her pass. Some were crying silently. Others were making a cross sign with their hands. One young man, who must've been eight years old when the Gendercide happened, stumbled forward with a soft cry.


He collapsed before he even got close to John, sobbing openly on the floor.

Nobody dared to touch. When she was close enough to the doors, they hurried to hold it open for her.

John expected to see the lobby deserted. Instead, the doors opened to reveal at least fifty men dressed in full riot gear. All of them had their guns at the ready.

Leading the front was Sherlock and Mycroft. They froze, their rescue attempt suddenly derailed. Nobody moved, nobody made a sound. It wasn't until John's faithful guard tightened his grip on his weapon, thinking this a fight, John finally broke the silence.


Sherlock tucked back his weapon and rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. He did his best to hide his pained face but she saw it. "Are you alright?" He asked. He doesn't bother to wait for a response and looked over her. "Can't believe he put you in a dress, you look ridiculous."

"Fuck you," she said. She struggled to keep herself from crying. Not now, and definitely not in front of all these men, staring at her.

Sherlock immediately pulled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. "Should we...?" He waved at the special forces.

"No," said John. "It's... it's not necessary."

Sherlock didn't seem convinced but chose not to fight it. He pulled John close to him, with his arms over her shoulders.

He turned to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said quietly, then tried to steer John out the front doors.

Mycroft didn't move to stop them. He didn't have to move. "I'm sorry, little brother. You knew this wasn't how it was going to end."

The doors were immediately blocked. Sherlock pulled John back, his eyes desperately looking for an exit. "Mycroft, what the hell-?"

John's attention was pulled to the side by an unexpected yell, and she watched as her faithful guard was dragged to the ground, his weapon taken from him, his arms forced behind his back.

"Miss Joanna," Mycroft addressed her. "Come with me, please."


"She needs to be protected, Sherlock. Only I can give that to her."

Sherlock pushed John behind him. "I'm not going to let you turn her into your goddamn science experiment!"

John pressed her face against Sherlock's back, feeling the warmth of his body against her skin. The roar of their argument became nothing more than background noise to her ears.

Ten years she fought this. She wanted her freedom, she wanted to keep her body to herself. In her head, she could hear her old university professors explaining the rights of women, how no matter the circumstances, she owed nothing to men. Her body, her choice.

Even now, ten years after the world nearly ended, she knew she had a choice.

John stepped aside Sherlock to face Mycroft. "I'm coming."

"John, no," Sherlock protested, grabbing her by the shoulders. In a lower voice, he hissed, "I can take you away. You know I can. I'll take us somewhere so far away they'll never find us."

John knew he could.

However, there was one factor that kept her from making that decision. John leaned up, pulled Sherlock in close to her and whispered in his ear,

"I think I'm pregnant."

Sherlock wrenched his body away from her. In an instant, his face broke. For the first time in their relationship, John made him speechless.

His features then went slacked and John thought he came to a decision. His eyes closed and he fell, crumbling to the ground without a sound.

Mycroft stepped back, tucking away the empty needle.