The gun was cold in his hands. Cold, heavy, sleek, and above all, guilty. It was a nice gun, new, and he had the feeling that had never been fired before. This thought made him distinctly uneasy, for some reason.

His hands were still tied by the zip tie, forcing him to hold the gun with both hands. The two together made it hard to move agilely and he knew he didn't have a chance of turning the gun on the man behind him before he was shot down. So he kept it trained on the ground, his grip tight. He didn't look nervous or anxious, wasn't shaking, his military training having prepared him for things that weren't quite this but were equally horrible. His back was stiff, his muscles tight, spine and shoulders straight as he stayed tense and alert, waiting for even one opportunity to break out. But he knew it wasn't coming, he knew that he had no choice this time. The other 20 hostages were staring at him, every single one of them silently pleading with him to shoot anyone else but them.

"Lucky number 21, Johnny boy…"

He should have known that this was all arranged, that someone was behind it, that it wasn't just a coincidence. But when the armed men had come in and told everyone in the grocery store to put their hands up and get down on the ground, he'd thought that this was just his bloody luck again, another chance circumstance. The thought that this had to do with Sherlock did cross his mind, but most of his enemies preferred to work quietly, subtly, under the radar. Except for one.

"We're going to conduct a little psychology experiment, Johnny. See how MOR-AAAL-I-TY works."

He was fighting to keep his breathing even, a little hitch now and then interrupting it. He forced himself to relax, telling himself that this was better than the alternative. There was no other way. He was startled as he felt arms wrap around him from behind, one going around his waist and the other going against his right arm to guide his arms straight, pointing the gun at the hostages and causing a ripple of fearful cries to go through them. He'd instantly tensed, but the man behind him positively giggled at his discomfort and purred in his ear, "Come on, John, this should be easy for you, you've killed men before, Daddy knows you've killed men before."

John didn't answer, his jaw tightening. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how conflicted he was about this, how much it was going to hurt. "And what if I just kill myself instead?" he asked, his voice firmer than he'd thought he was able to manage.

The man chuckled. "And what would be the fun in that?" he asked, his voice lifting, then falling at the word 'fun' in a half sing song. "You're the special one John, lucky number 21. So you're going to kill one, or I'm going to kill them all!" His voice was full of manic glee but dropped into a serious, superficially somber tone. "One by one in front of you. Very sloooooowly. It's a funny little moral dilemma, isn't it? Kill one, or let everyone die. But this should be so easy for you, you've killed before, you can do it again."

"That was different," John said numbly. A slight tremble was threatening his hands so he adjusted his grip, the other man's eyes darting to the motion. John felt lips brush against his ear as the other man smiled and said, his voice lilting, "Oh, don't be like that, dear Johnny. We all know the meaning of collateral damage. You killed in the army on orders and you would kill again for Sherly in the name of LOVE." He spat the word with no lack of disdain in his voice. "You liked killing, so for Daddy, do it again, or I'll take care of it for you. Just. One. Shot."

John closed his eyes, his head shaking slightly of its own volition. It wasn't a denial, he wasn't saying he wouldn't, he just needed a second, just one second to think about this. Where the bloody hell was Sherlock? Better question, how had no one seen this coming? There had been silence for months, a lack of activity, a lull that usually signaled Sherlock's nemesis was up to no good. This was his no good, though John wasn't sure why he was always the one who had to suffer for Sherlock. Well, he did know why, but he wasn't even sure how this would actually hurt Sherlock in the long term. This wasn't as direct as the usual crimes, didn't seem as big a part of the game going on that John was too out of his depth to be playing in. He was being forced to play now.

The arm against his own dropped but the one around his waist remained and John felt the hand of the dropped arm go to his hip, the grip firm but not too tight. It sickened him, really, but then again maybe that was just the nauseous dread sloshing around his stomach at the feeling that yes, this was really happening, and that in just a few seconds he was going to kill one of these hostages at the behest of a sociopath because he had no other choice. The hand on his hip squeezed him gently and the owner of it said, "Now, dear," and John opened his eyes and fired. There were a few screams and a thud as a body hit the floor and John lowered the gun, his hands beginning to tremble as he closed his eyes again, trying not to see his own handiwork.

"Oh how boring, you shot the oldest one," the man behind him said, resting his chin on John's shoulder. "Typical human nature, it's so pre-dic-tab-le…"

He wanted him to shut up just shut up just for once in his goddamn life shut up but when he did it was almost worse, as he laid a soft, chaste kiss on John's cheek and said, "But still, good boy."

The last two words were a silky purr and John had to restrain himself from shuddering, calling on all his strength and training to stay where he was and not react to the psychopath. There was no purpose to this, no rhyme or reason, no way that this led back to Sherlock in any way, shape, or form, Sherlock was peripherally involved in this if at all and this had just been John on his own, so what had been the point? He wanted to turn around and scream at him but restrained himself as the man took the gun out of his hands, holding it by the end of the handle between two fingers, as if it was dirty, and handing it off to one of his henchman to be disposed of. Both hands free again, he wrapped his arms around John's waist, leaning forward to hiss into his ear, "Feels good, doesn't it? Just like old times? How does it feel—" here he leant closer, his voice lifting again "—to kill someone who did nothing wrong? Hmmmm?"

"What's the game, Moriarty?" John asked wearily, knowing his hands were trembling slightly where they hung loose against the hands of Moriarty around his waist.

"What game?" He could hear the predatory smile in his voice.

"The game. The game, the bloody damn game you've been playing with Sherlock for months, the one that led you to strap me into a bomb vest, this has to be part of it. What was the point of having me do this, what are you trying to do to Sherlock using me?"

"I'm not doing anything to Sherlock, he's been so…so…" his voice dropped again "—DOMEStic recently. I did this for you."

John felt his blood turn to ice water in his veins, his blue eyes popping open again. He actually turned to look at Moriarty, though Moriarty retained his grip on him, and saw the sweet as poisoned candy smile on the other man's lips.

"Oh don't look so sur-prised, Johnny boy, not everything's about Sherlock. Although I'm sure he'll be thrown into a fit by this one. I'm going to make sure that it looks like you did this one on your own, and he'll be thrown for a complete loop." The 'p' popped in his mouth and he grinned at John, showing slightly pointed teeth before he retrieved the gum in his mouth from the side of his cheek and began chewing it again, a scent of fruit drifting to John. "Especially when you disappear without a trace. Sic 'em, boys," he said in a lilting sing song, and John screamed as the hired thugs opened fire on the rest of the hostages. He fought like hell against Moriarty but there was the pinch of a needle in his neck and then everything went black, and he slipped away to the sight of Moriarty blowing a kiss to him before he was gone.