Chapter 1

Heat. A blazing, smoldering heat. A snapping, popping sound. Vehement swearing drifts atop the steady crackle. A pungent odor. Petrol, perhaps?

Sherlock's eyes open to the dancing orange glow of fire. He glances around. Strips of silk, approximately 46 inches long, bind him to the bed. Ties. Not just any ties; silk ties, implying some level of wealth. Lying with his head awkwardly against the headboard of a rather posh rosewood bed frame. Bed sheets: also silk. More wealth. Expensive fabrics and furniture plus fire, well that was easy. He is tied to the bed posts in one of Jim Moriarty's numerous flats. How quaint.

He should have known that he'd end up here eventually. It was inevitable, really. Now he just needed to see whether this rendezvous was for business or pleasure. Pleasure, in Moriarty's terms would no doubt consist of torture, death threats, and mental "stimulation". None of this differed from business, the only distinction being that in pleasure Seb and John were involved.

Speaking of Seb and John…

Sherlock looked past the fire surrounding the bed. For God's sake, a bloody ring of fire? Oh Jim, how dramatic of you.

Sebastian Moran stands barely 3 feet away from John, both of them bristling like alpha wolves. They speak, each word uttered with quiet menace, so quiet that Sherlock has to read their lips.

John: "- already know my answer. You two must be really thick to think I'd go for something like that. Back off, or I swear Sebastian, I'll be the death of both of you."

Seb: "Big words for someone so small, yeah? Think it over. After all, time is running out for the great detective."

John: "Piss off. If a single hair on his head is so much as singed, I'll tear you apart. Or maybe I'll just pop back to the other room where Moriarty is lying unconscious on the ground and strangle him with his own poncy tie."

Seb growls.

Seb: "Give it a go, why don't you? Won't bode well for Sherly. How's about I take that pretty face of his and—"

John: "Have I rattled you? Ha, I knew that you and Moriarty were close, but never would have guessed that close. Been round his bed much? Or does he only let you suck him off in a car park when no one's looking? I'd say that he's using you, but you masochists are always looking for humiliation, so no need for me to mention it."

Seb: "I'll kill you. You and your fucking savant boyfriend."

John: "Language, Moran, language! He's not my boyfriend, but the sentiment is noted."

Seb: "I'm glad I get to kill you. I've wanted to the moment I saw you through my scope."

Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate the situation. The two golden haired soldiers stand in front of him, threats etched in the taut lines of their bodies as they stand tensed for battle, one almost platinum, the other a tawny shade. It's almost beautiful, he thinks as he admires the way the fire light makes their hair glow. Alright, now he's definitely sure he was drugged and/or hit over the head. Sherlock thrills inside at the news of Jim, grinning to himself as he pictures John decking him right in the face. He pictured blood pouring from Jim's nose. Too bad, the suit he was undoubtedly wearing was sure to be expensive.

Sherlock rather liked John's murderous rages. They always brought out the efficient killer/fighter/strategist that he gained from his time in the Army. Having such a physically and mentally competent person to dash about London with was quite an adventure.

…. And then there was the fire to think about. Potentially problematic. The flames seemed to be there more as a barrier than a kiln in which to incinerate Sherlock. Kidnapped but not injured (as far as he could tell). Strange. He mouths a quiet, breathy oh as it starts to make sense. This is about John then.

Think! What about John would induce Jim to go to such measures as stealing Sherlock? Stealing me? Implies that I belong to John, now doesn't it? File that under Contemplate Later. Looking past that he goes through all he knows about John Hamish Watson. Nothing that could potentially interest Jim blips. Unless this really is just for the amusement of having Sherlock play the damsel in distress. Though John's military/medical background would make him a valuable addition to Jim's current organization, Sherlock knows that Jim knows that John would never accept any offer he made, no matter how good the deal. Out of the question. John's loyalty was one of the many ineffable and unwavering qualities that he brought into Sherlock's life. John was stability, was consistency, was… many things. A puzzle, and an open book. Contemplate Later.

Sherlock decides to test his bonds. Tight enough that he realizes that he can't actually feel his hands. He puts his weight on the bonds, pulling himself into a slightly more comfortable position. Comfortable. Ha. Comfortable is boring. His vantage point affords him the full view of John and Seb. Sherlock observes John, noticing how he has stealthily slipped into a fighting stance. Knees slightly bent weight on the front of his feet. Seb sees this, of course. Seb's mocking manner is at once stowed away as he too gets ready for the clash. There is a moment when the silence roars. Even the fire seemed to go quiet.

Suddenly Sherlock is worried. John is a great fighter, no doubt, but Seb is so much larger, so much more ruthless. John's eyes are narrowed, his every breath controlled and measured. Seb is calm and collected. His eyes. Cold, yet lit with a manic gleam that one sees in rabid dogs.

Sherlock's fists clench. This shouldn't be happening.

This can't be happening. John, I can't. What if he wins?

There was nothing that Sherlock could do to stop this. He struggled against his restraints as the two soldiers leapt towards each, bathed in the nearly red light of the fire.