A/N: This is my first story for the BBC's Sherlock. Being an American, I haven't seen the second series yet (and if anybody spoils it for me, I shall be quite disappointed). This fic came about from a Moriarty line during 1x03, "The Great Game"; "I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." The second I heard it, all these ideas of how to hurt Sherlock started popping into my head, and I just had to get them down. I don't own the characters (that would be the BBC…or the Doyle family…or maybe they've hit public domain, I dunno), but I love them as much as anybody.

Prologue: What Happens in the Poolhouse Should Stay in the Poolhouse

The cab ride home was the longest John could remember. Perhaps it was the silence, John thought, staring at the seat before him. He and Sherlock sat side-by-side, trying to forget the things they'd seen throughout the night, having met and barely escaped the most clearly insane man with whom John had ever come face-to-face. Or at least that was what John was doing. He had so long ago stopped trying to decide what it was that Sherlock was thinking at any given moment.

John had tried making a game of it, watching Sherlock for any indication of what must be the raging storm of facts, inferences, opinions and deductions swirling around his misleadingly average-sized head. When they'd first become flatmates, he had found it to be the only entertainment which could hold his interest. He'd once stayed at it all day, trying for any indication of what the man was thinking. After all, it wasn't as if he'd had anything better to do lately. One could only watch so many crap telly programs before they became as predictable and dull as Sherlock claimed the rest of the world to be. He'd sat on the couch, utterly focused, for more than six hours. But to no avail. His only consolation was the laugh he'd had when he realized Sherlock hadn't noticed his staring.

John had recently seen a small part of what was going on in there, and he was more than glad now that he'd failed all those times before. The man, John was beginning to realize, was some sort of cosmic tradeoff. For all his intellect, he had no social conscience, no awareness of others. If John hadn't known very much better, he would suspect that Sherlock had no soul.

Certainly the trip over hadn't taken so long, John thought, staring out at the city streets rushing by around them. But then, he'd had a bag over his head at the time and couldn't be counted on reliably for time. Moriarty's men had been surprisingly gentle as they grabbed him off the street, but thinking about it violated the promise John had made to himself not to think about that crazed bastard until he was ready to accept that everything that had just happened was real, and not some ridiculous fevered nightmare spawned of too many at the pub with Stamford, or maybe some virus he'd picked up at the clinic.

Gazing out the window as the city rushed by outside, Sherlock spoke, breaking into John's reverie. "John, are you cross with me?"

The question took him more than a little off guard. Try as he might, he could find no connection between the night's events, strange as they were, and Sherlock's seemingly random line of questioning. "Wha—I, um…no. Why-why do you ask?"

Sherlock made no mention of John's flustered state, much to John's relief. "Ordinarily, when we take the cab, you sit across from me. Unless you're cross with me." He fell silent for a moment, and John was just foolish enough to begin to hope that he would let the matter be. Sherlock turned away from the window to look over at John as he asked, "Why is that, by the way?"

John sighed, knowing that trying to lie would be pointless; Sherlock saw through everyone, and John didn't think he could be the exception. "When I…when I'm upset with you…I don't like to look at you."

Sherlock hmmed smally. "So, conversely, when you're not cross with me, you do like to look at me." It was not phrased as a question. "So, then, if you're not cross with me, why aren't you sitting across from me?"

John sighed, not wanting to give voice to his troubled thoughts. "I just…I want to…I don't want to think about what just happened. I'm trying to forget. For now, anyway. Until…until it's not so fresh. Until I can process what just happened."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He looked forward in that way he had of trying to ignore John's humanity. Anytime John tried to open up to the man, he got like this. Not that John minded overmuch most of the time. "And how's that going for you?" Sherlock asked, his tone indicating he didn't much care, but wanted John to realize he was making the effort.

"Terribly," John admitted, hunching over and resting his elbows on his knees. He covered his face with his hands. "I can't stop thinking of that horrible lunatic."

"I don't imagine talking about it will help you forget," Sherlock said off-handedly, clearly caring less for the conversation he had initiated as it wore on.

But his demeanor was too much for John, not now. "We almost died, you know," John snapped, turning to Sherlock once more. "That madman almost killed us both."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I believe you'll find that a more common occurrence the more time you spend in my company. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid. Come, John, it's not as if this is the first time someone's tried to kill you."

John set his head back into his hands, sinking slightly as he let himself remember. "Yes, but he had me. The only reason he didn't kill me outright when he picked me up off the street was to get under your skin. I'm like a pawn in your sick chess game." Despite himself, John remembered what lengths Sherlock had been willing to go to stop Moriarty.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The chess metaphor is overplayed, John. You're better than that." He looked out the window once more. "Besides, you're at least a rook."

John straightened, smiling slightly. Compliments from Sherlock were odd and rare, but they always made him smile. "Sherlock?"

The detective sighed belaboredly, turning again to face John. "What did he mean?"

"Specifically?" Sherlock asked shortly.

John inhaled deeply, turning his mind to the most disturbing thing the insane Moriarty had said. "He said he'd burn your heart out. What do you suppose he meant by that?

Sherlock was staring intently now out the window, as though he were looking for something. Much as John had promised himself he would stop trying to read the man, he knew that look. Sherlock was thinking about something, working something out in his mind, doing something more complicated than John could even begin to conceive of. "In fact, he said he would burn the heart out of me, and I haven't the slightest idea what he could have meant."

John didn't believe his friend for a moment, but he allowed the comment to pass.

After the set-up, the fun starts, so I hope to see you back for more next time.