AN: This is my first Sherlock fanfic, but don't hold back! I love constructive criticism!
The idea for this fic is Sherlock and Moriarty are sort of fighting for John's attention. But what happens when John is kidnapped?
This takes place during Reichanbach, after the court room scene and when Moriarty visits Sherlock and drinks tea and is beautifully sassy, but it will be AU. There is some implied Sherlock/John and Moriarty/John, but no slash or anything like that. In fact, it's mainly bromancy.
Enjoy! (And let me know if I should continue)
The day was cold, the wind sharp and shimmering in the air; the London streets were wet and slick, as though half frozen. And walking purposefully towards the dark door of 221b Baker Street was a silver-haired army doctor, standing straight and proud, a plastic grocery bag in one hand and the door key at the ready in the other.
John Watson approached the door. He readied the key in his hand, about to insert it into the lock.
But he felt something… a shiver, running up and down his spine. The door was ajar - and although Sherlock most likely wouldn't leave the door open, he was so easily preoccupied.
Still… something was off.
He stopped immediately, his eyesight and hearing sharpening as his pulse sped slightly. His first and immediate thought was Sherlock. Was he OK?
John dropped the plastic milk bag on the doorstep and pushed the door all the way open. He crept up the stairs, resisting the urge to call up the stairs. If there was an intruder, and Sherlock was in trouble, it would do no good to proclaim his presence.
He stepped up each step slowly, as though testing the soundness of each and every one. He avoided the creaky eighth step. Anticipation and worry clouded his mind, and he couldn't help but rush up the last few steps. He pressed his ear to the door, pushing it just barely open so he could get a bit of a view of the room. Unfortunately, the extent of his view was just the mantle and the skull, staring back at him.
Words floated to him… he couldn't believe what - or rather, who - he was hearing.
"...you liked my little trick with the jury?" Moriarty's voice made anger swell and roil in John's stomach. Moriarty was here? At 221b?
A brief moment of quiet. John was itching to see Sherlock's face right now, but he daren't open the creaky door even a little more; any little noise would be detected in such a tension-filled silence.
"Oh, so you don't know how I did it? That is rich." Jim chortled, his deep voice resonating. John could almost hear the gears in Sherlock's head turning, cranking, working.
Then, a moment later, Sherlock's breathy reply.
"Obvious. Boring, even." John hated being kept in the dark (though he could visualize Moriarty's insulted expression). And right now, questions were flying through his head: How did Moriarty get out of his crimes? Why was he here? What did he want with Sherlock?
"I do wish John were here right now." Moriarty said, his voice always on the edge of laughing, a maniacal lilt that was so distinctive. It was a wonder the world couldn't see it.
"You're not to touch him." Sherlock's voice was flat, the closest he ever got to sounding like he cared.
"Quite right. He's yours - I understand."
Another period of silence, save an incessant tapping. John risked opening the door just a little farther. He could now see Moriarty's expression, though Sherlock was facing away from the door. They seemed to just be… talking, though there was far too much weighty silence in the conversation. It was as though the two geniuses were having half their dialogue telepathically (John wouldn't be surprised). There was tea on the side table, and an apple in Moriarty's hand. He was cutting pieces out of it with a pocket knife.
"Should get myself one, I suppose. I do like the live ones. So warm. And funny. Mine always end up dead - I can't help myself." John frowned in disgust Moriarty's honest psychosis. He could see Moriarty's smile of longing, as he casually chewed a piece of apple. Moriarty reminded John of Harry's former cat. She'd catch a mouse, and be playing with it, and accidentally hit it too hard. Then she'd wonder why it died, thinking oops!
Sherlock wordlessly picked up his violin, plucking on a string and tuning it slightly. He regarded Moriarty with his unbreaking stare. John wondered why the detective hadn't thrown Moriarty out yet, called Lestrade, or texted John. What was happening between these two?
"Though I must say, John is a prize. Loyal, brave. Not intelligent."
"John is intelligent!" Sherlock finally protested. John was surprised - all those times Sherlock had called him an idiot, did they really mean nothing? Still, it felt nice and rare to hear praise (even if it wasn't meant as praise) from the consulting detective.
"Not like you." Moriarty smiled again.
"Not like me. But we both know that isn't the only kind of intelligence."
"The only one that matters." The consulting criminal responded quickly. Sherlock nodded, plucking another note. Moriarty pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock, who took it silently but with a nod of thanks, and lit it. John was dying to run in there, but he knew that he would only cause confusion - Sherlock seemed to be handling it for now.
John also wanted to text Lestrade, but that would be fruitless. Jim Moriarty was a free man, there were no grounds for arrest. John's thoughts took him away from the conversation, as he searched for any way to tie Moriarty to a crime, somewhere, somehow. He'd killed so many people, for God's sake! And he was free!
"...you can come in now, John." Both of the men in the drawing room - criminal and detective alike - said at the exact same moment. John was violently brought back to the conversation, and he froze at the door, before realizing it was futile. Moriarty was looking right at him, the snake. He was about to step through the door, his foot was even raised… but someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped, and turned around.
And was abruptly hit across the face with the butt of a rifle. Out like a light.
There was another player in the Great Game.