"Aren't you curious about the fun we're going to have?"

I do not reply. Moriarty looks at me with a smooth smile, and smacks open a mobile phone.

"Bring the pliers here. John is not cooperating..."

He voice is like a scratched record, jumping from low ("John") to high ("cooperating").

He pockets his mobile.

We are in a small room, only wide and long enough for perhaps a line of four single beds to squeeze together. Patches of wet gleam on the concrete floor as if it has just rained, even though no water could get through a roof that thick. The only light is a single, naked bulb's faint orange goal. And the only way out is a heavy steel door.

Moriarty is leaning across its frame, watching me as I struggle, weak with drugs, to sit up properly in my chair. Slowly, he begins to walk towards me and crouches down. His right hand runs down my cheek, my neck, over my shirt, pausing and circling on my nipple, snaking down to the soft spot at the bottom of my trembling stomach and, increasing in speed, launching suddenly into my pants.

I know this type. They elongate everything. Their prey hangs in limbo (sometimes literally hanging), waiting on a snap of a thread, until they almost end up begging for the inevitable pain. It is not a technique or tactic for Moriarty has learnt, though; enjoying the suffering of others is simply how he approaches life.

"You no fun." He leans so close that his breath is hot on mine; they mix in the air and I hate it. "Hmmm, I know." He tightens his grip. "Ooo, I can feel your cock pulsating in my hands. Does it do this for Sherlock?"

"We're not-" I stop myself.

"We have a response!" His hand give me one last pinch as it leaves my pants. He claps the same hand to his forehead and stares at me with an oval mouth, before saying "oh" and slowing resting a forefinger against his bottom lip. "Pointless though, because I know you're lying."

"Ha, how do you know that? Who do you gossip with? Lestrade?"

I try to scoff, but it comes out as more of a cough.

Humour, even unfunny, has always been my saviour; it keeps me sane despite the situation and, if nothing else, gives me a laugh.

Moriarty tilts his head, like a curious reptile. "Cute really, that you try for a morsel of control." I seem to have riled his interest. Sherlock has told me you never want to do that (despite the fact that he himself does it constantly). "Now answer my question. Aren't you curious about the fun we're going to have?"

I may as well talk now: my rebellious silence ended the moment my objection to his idea about my relationship with Sherlock broke free; the power-play has gone. "What do you want me to say?"

"Oh Johnny, I don't mind!" He places a hand melodramatically on his heart, then tilts his head onto his shoulder suddenly like his puppet-string had just been broken. "As long as it's what you truly feel."

Moriarty's hands are clasped behind his back. I think of me, a soldier, in hot Afghanistan, exhausted by war, and violence, and the trickle of lives running through my fingers, down my shirt, drip drip drip onto my boots. Never to stand at ease. Does James Moriarty not notice the stickiness – on every inch of him - of stolen blood? Does he not care? No, of course not. He does not deal with death in nightmares but dreams.

"ANSWER ME JOHN!"

I can't help it: I jump in my bonds.

"Am I curious?" I reply, my voice too shaky. I try to steady it. "No."

No, I do not want to know what this man is going to do to me, how he is going to make me die and how quickly he will shake off my blood - to more murder and a world void of sleepless nights, hands scrubbed until they peel and humiliating public flashbacks.

"Well, I'll let you on the secret anyway. Weare going to have fun with you and Sherlock." His eyes flick between my own. "Oh you thought it was going to be with little Johnny." His gaze rests on my crotch for a moment, before it loses interest and returns to my eyes. "No. I am going to rip your innocence away to an extent that a little bit of sex cannot reach. On its own anyway." He shrugs. "I'm sure we'll try it to see if it works too. I am going to drag you and Sherlock down together."

I do not say anything. Moriarty mentioned him; he flicked his tongue in the right way and, there, Sherlock is involved. Of course he is. The only reason I am here is because of my link with Sherlock. I mean nothing to Moriarty. I don't blame him; it is always Sherlock for me too and yet, in this moment, Moriarty means everything to me; he is my whole life because it is him who could choose to change it irreparably, end it.

"John." I am flung, like a stone in a boy's slingshot, back to the present where Moriarty is still standing."Surprise of your life! Look behind you!"

It is like a pantomime, as I turn my head backwards. Moriarty is giggling, dragging my chair forcefully around so I can see properly, but I can already see, already I know. I close my eyes and wish for anything else, but this was never about me, and always about him.

It is about the man who whisked me away on an endless wrestle with his mind-boggling character. Full throttle, I have been whisked from believing he is like Moriarty - cold, uncaring - to knowing that he is a man full of goodness and hope. Of course, he enjoyed the pool, the adrenaline of battling with Moriarty – until he saw me saw me and asked if I was alright.

I know that he feels the blood of the lives he has lost, trickling through his fingers.

Surely, my blood too will join those red rivers soon too.

Sherlock is here.


A/N: Thank you for all your lovely responses.

Btw this is set after Scandal in Belgravia.