A new game begins. Jim always gets what he wants.
It had been 2months since that night at the pool. Few things had changed, the changes that had happened were barely noticeable to a passer by, a friend, or an acquaintance but to John, and to Sherlock, they were rather obvious.
Sherlock had become more protective. At first he hid it, kept it under wraps, but John could see through so he gave up and was less than obvious about it, sighing heavily and frowning when John had to go out. Sherlock was scared and angry. Two things, which in Sherlock were the worst combination.
John, had also changed, he had become more careful around Sherlock. He worried more, if that was even possible. The two of them were never far from each other. Both living in fear. Moriarty was out there, and after the pool, who knows what lengths he'd go to.
Sherlock sat drinking his tea, idly flicking through the news paper looking for mistakes the police had made. John was making dinner, enough for two, although they both knew Sherlock wouldn't eat it, John still insisted on trying daily, he knew Sherlock would be hungry eventually, it was just trying to find something he'd be hungry for.
Sherlocks phone buzzed in his pocket. It was too soon. He just sat and stared, dumb founded, at his phone, a million thoughts, a million feelings, just bubbling beneath the surface.
I want to play a game. Are you ready? – JM
John came through, a plate of food in hand, and settled into his seat. He looked up and at seeing Sherlocks expression, the colour drained from his face. Moriarty. He needed to confirm his suspicions though, in an almost inaudible whisper he spoke:
"Is it him? Moriarty?"
With a short quick nod Sherlock verified this. Johns insides turned icy cold and he felt a chill creep up his spine. John loathed Moriarty. Sherlock knew he did, it wasn't hard to tell. John still hadn't told Sherlock what happened to him when Moriarty took him just before the pool incident. He didn't think he ever would.
"What does he want?" his voice louder now, but still quaking slightly.
"To play a game, but its ok, I don't want to play." Sherlock replied, looking his best friend in the eye.
John couldn't comprehend this, he knew Sherlock enjoyed the games, almost craved them, so why was he turning it down...
"Why not?" he asked, confusion lacing Johns voice.
"Because it's too dangerous." Sherlock replied coolly.
"I have you to think of." he added on after a few seconds.
Sherlock couldn't risk losing John, as much as it pained him to admit, he needed John, Sherlock never needed anyone, ever, his whole life he was fine, just him, but that night at the pool, Sherlock's fears were proven true, he needed John, he couldn't let anyone hurt John, especially not if it was his fault.
Sherlock quickly typed a short reply.
No, I'm not ready, because I don't want to play. You can create games and puzzles all you like. I will have no part in solving them. – SH
Sherlock gave John a reassuring smile. That smile held so many promises and unspoken words. I won't let him get you. He can't harm you. I will protect you. Never again. It's ok. At that smile, John relaxed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was ok, Moriarty couldn't make Sherlock do anything, it was ok, Sherlock said no, it's ok, I'm safe, we're safe.
Sherlocks phone buzzed again.
Oh you don't want to? Well, I suppose I'll have to make you want to. – JM
Sherlock gave a heavy sigh, almost mimicking John's, they looked at each other briefly, searching each others faces for any traces of emotion they'd missed. Seeing they had both relaxed, they carried on with their tasks.
That night, both John and Sherlock slept. They slept deeply. Sherlock was exhausted. They could relax. They said no. What else could he do?
Moriarty.
"SEB! Oh Sebby! I have a job for you. You'll like it. It's quite... Interesting." Moriarty screamed, although once Sebastian entered the room, Jim practically cooed at him.
Sherlock was playing a game of his own was he? Well, Jim knew how to beat him, he always had a plan.
"I need you to pay a visit to our dear friends Sherlock and John. Bring them to me. I want them sedated. Kept away from each other of course. Take whomever you wish to help you. I want them here by tomorrow morning. Understood? Here use this to sedate them, inject it into the top of the thigh." Moriarty knew he wouldn't let him down. Sebastian Moran was his best. His favourite. He was wonderful.
Waking up
John.
John fell asleep easily last night, slept well in fact, except for that small shooting pain in his leg, attributing that to his psychosomatic injury he fell back into a dreamless sleep.
Waking up, John was cold, it was dark, it felt like he'd slept all night, wondering why it was still dark. He couldn't entirely feel his whole body; it came to him in parts. John's head was fuzzy. He was sat up. Not the way he'd fallen asleep. John's hands were behind his back, tied. Definitely not how he'd fell asleep. Legs tied to what could only be the chair legs. John could only think of one solution, He'd been drugged and kidnapped. By whom, he had no idea, head still fuzzy. Upon raising his head, John let out a soft groan, he ached everywhere. Looking around, as he had expected; four dark stone walls, one door, no windows, one dim light. Although there were to things John didn't expect as much, a camera, and a projector.
John couldn't keep track of time, had no idea how long he'd been here, wherever here was. Hours after he woke up he found he was incredibly bored, after he had ran through so many different reason for his being here, he had panicked incessantly about Sherlock and whether he was safe, John had nothing left to think about. His stomach grumbled and throat was terribly dry. John longed for a cup of tea very much so. Licking his lips to wet them if ever so slightly, he tasted something with a metallic tinge. Blood. No wonder the left side of his face hurt so much. He'd been punched.
The first noise John heard other than his own breathing and heart rate startled him. He could hear the clinking of metal coming from the door. Bolts being undone, keys being turned. For a second, a trill of hope filled him; maybe this was Sherlock, or Lestrade coming to save him.
But that hope was short lived. In walked the man of John's nightmares.
