Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. That honor goes to the BBC.

Rating: T. Definitely T. There will be violence, probably swearing, and Jim. Jim is his own warning, so BEWARE.

A/N: New story. Yes I just started a new story. I will update both, I promise. Please read, review, and enjoy!

Because I Was Bored

Chapter 1: Reacquaintance

John woke up slowly, glancing around. He struggled to take in his surroundings. Things were . . . not how they usually were when he woke up. For one thing, he was not in his bed. He seemed to be tied to a chair, in a room that was clearly meant to hold prisoners. The chair he was tied to was bolted to the floor. The walls were made of concrete, and there were no windows. The only door seemed to be made of steel.

However, the room still managed to be ridiculously opulent, for a cell, anyway. There was an ornate carpet on the stretch of floor that wasn't needed for the chair, and there was an extremely fancy couch resting against the far wall. The couch and rug both had annoyingly loud patterns and looked vaguely Oriental. It was like the room was a study in opposites.

John took a deep breath and cast his mind back, trying to determine how he'd gotten there. He had got off his shift at the hospital at about 3 pm and was walking home, a van pulled up in front of him, and that was it.

Right then. Kidnapped, obviously. Taken to the strangest cell he'd ever seen in his life. He didn't know why he was there, but he knew that it had to have something to do with Sherlock. John had managed to go a long time without accruing enemies before he met Sherlock, but he was certain that he had inherited thousands when he befriended him.

The only question now was which enemy had decided to get revenge now.

"Honestly," John thought, "It's a bit ridiculous, someone trying to get revenge on me now, when Sherlock's been dead for three years."

John hadn't done anything remotely interesting in the three years since Sherlock's death, so whoever it was, was a bit slow in the revenge department. "Or just got out of prison," John added silently.

Either way, bit not good. John tugged at his restraints, testing their strength. His hands were cuffed behind him and his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. As restraints go, those weren't bad. John was able to determine in seconds that he wouldn't be able to slip them. He settled back to wait for his captor to make an appearance.

John had been waiting nearly twenty minutes before the door creaked open. He sat up straight, waiting to see what mysterious enemy was about to step through the door.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the figure drawled. "I didn't realize you were up."

John's jaw dropped in disbelief. It was impossible. Completely impossible. And yet, Jim Moriarty had just stepped through the door and was smirking at John. Before John could even wrap his head around the impossible thing standing before him, Jim turned glancing through the open door.

"C'mon, then," he urged to whoever was outside. "I told you I wanted you to see this one."

There was a long suffering sigh that sounded . . . strangely familiar, and then a second figure stepped into the room, glanced over at him, and froze.

Sherlock looked at John, shock and disbelief written across his face as his eyes darted frantically around the room, taking in every detail. Abruptly, he turned, rounding on Moriarty, fury in his gaze. "What the hell is he doing here, Jim?" Sherlock asked furiously.

Moriarty shrugged and smiled faintly. "I was bored," he said calmly.

Sherlock turned away, furiously pacing the length of the room. He looked furious. He looked . . . remarkably alive, for a dead man. So did Moriarty, for that matter. John felt that it was high time to point that out.

"Um, Sherlock," John said, trying with little success to find a way to express his thoughts. He took a deep breath. "You're alive. How are you alive?" He looked at Moriarty nervously. "While we're on the topic, how is he alive?"

Sherlock blinked, confused for a moment. Then clarity shot across his features and he winced slightly. "Right," he said quietly. "Yes. I'm alive. He's alive."

He walked towards John, pausing in front of him. "I faked it, John. My death. I had to, there was no choice. Jim . . . was going to kill you. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and just about everyone else, so I . . . had to die. Sorry." He stared at John for a moment, waiting for his response.

John blinked, trying to take that in. "So, basically, everyone's alive," he said blankly. "That's . . . lovely, I suppose." He looked at Moriarty. "Except him. It's not really lovely that he's alive, especially seeing as how he just kidnapped me. Speaking of which, what the hell is going on, exactly?"

Sherlock hesitated, hoping for a bit more reaction. None was forthcoming. He nodded once, and then turned back to Moriarty, who was waiting patiently by the door. "I was wondering that myself, actually," he said. "Jim, why is he here? And don't tell me you were bored, you're always bored. You promised not to hurt John when I agreed to come with you, and yet, he seems to be tied to a chair in front of me. So I have to ask, one more time, what the hell is going on?!"

Jim smiled innocently. "I didn't promise not to hurt him, I promised not to kill him," he told Sherlock nonchalantly. "Not breaking any promises, here."

"No," Sherlock told him coldly, "You promised not to hurt him. In any way."

"I'm not sure the conversation went like that," Jim said absently. "I don't think I would have promised something like that."

"Well, you DID!" Sherlock shouted. "Remember? The conversation went something like, 'I promise, if you come with me now I won't kill him,' and then I said, 'Promise you won't hurt him and I'll go with you,' and you said, 'Hurt him how?' and I said, 'In any way. Don't hurt him in any way and I'll do what you ask,' and you said, 'Alright, Sherlock Holmes, you have yourself a deal.' Does this conversation sound familiar yet, Jim?"

"Oh, that conversation. I'd forgotten about that one," Jim admitted, gazing at the ceiling nostalgically. He grinned at Sherlock. "Good times, eh?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "Your promise, Jim."

"Well, Sherlock, honey, I hate to break this to you, but I am a bit . . . changeable." Jim smiled coldly.

Sherlock stared at Jim for a moment, and then began to speak, quietly at first, but getting louder by the second. "Why, Jim?" He demanded. "I did everything you asked. Everything. I came with you, I left everything behind. I let all my friends think I was dead because you told me to. I helped you with your schemes, I killed people for you, just so you wouldn't hurt him. And now you're going to hurt him, you're going to kill him, because you're bored? When, exactly, did I stop being entertaining enough, Jim? What do you want? Should I beg you to have mercy on him? Is that what you want?"

Jim tilted his head, interested. He smirked at Sherlock calmly. "Yes," he said softly. "Beg for his life, and maybe I'll spare him. Beg for mercy, Sherlock Holmes."

John felt himself go cold at those words. A memory flashed into his mind, from years ago. 'I've never begged for mercy in my life' and fear rushed through him. He stared at Sherlock, praying desperately, irrationally, that he'd stay silent.

Sherlock glanced at John quickly, his face twisting, apology bright in his eyes, and then turned resolutely back to Jim. "Please," he said quietly. "Please, Jim, have mercy. Don't kill John, please don't kill John. I'll do anything you want, you know I will, just . . . don't kill him."

Jim studied Sherlock, seeming to consider his words, and then laughed. "Sherlock," he said with amusement, 'That may be the most insincere plea I've ever heard, and I've heard quite a few."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I thought that one was quite good, actually," he said, projecting a layer of calm, that couldn't fully hide the desperate rage just beneath the surface. "Besides," Sherlock pointed out, "Last week you said the most insincere plea was when I asked you to forgive my burning your dinner."

Jim scowled. "You burned the soup to the bottom of the pan," he snarled. "It had to be scraped out with a chisel, I'm fairly certain you owed me that apology."

"Yes, scraped out by me," Sherlock retorted. "While you were trying to stab me, by the way, which didn't actually make it easier. Plus, you had another two courses in that meal and you don't even like soup, so I don't know why you even cared."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" Jim screamed suddenly. "It's the principle of the thing-"

"Um, if I could just- interrupt," John cut in awkwardly. "Are you arguing about soup? Because, hi, still tied to a chair."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "John, shut up," he said flatly. "Jim. Let him go."

Moriarty's face twisted with rage at these words and he strode furiously across the room. He stopped in front of Sherlock, who had flinched back at his approach. "Don't. Tell. Me. What. To. Do." Jim ordered softly.

Sherlock opened his mouth, an apology on his lips, but before he could speak Jim's hand swung forward, cracking across Sherlock's face and slamming his head into the wall behind him. John gave a startled cry of horror as Sherlock froze against the wall, blood running down his face.

Moriarty turned away from him and strode toward the door. He stepped through it and paused, glancing back at Sherlock, who hadn't moved.

"Why don't you spend a little time with your old pet?" he suggested coldly. "Get reacquainted. I'll be back in the morning."

With that he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. John heard the distinctive sound of a lock snapping shut. He looked frantically back at Sherlock and watched as he slid slowly down the wall, staring blankly at the closed door.

"Sherlock . . .?" John questioned uncertainly. "Are you all right?"

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. Then he started laughing, burst of near-hysterical laughter that showed no sign of stopping. John stared at him for a moment, and then closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.