Note: Wow! I am blown away by the response to the previous chapter. Thank you so much to all of you for reading my little fanfic. Now, on with the story…

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Paralysis

It is said that doctors make the worst patients. In the case of John Watson, that saying was more than accurate.

The former soldier hadn't moved an inch of his own volition since his collapse in the swimming pool. He couldn't even blink as Moriarty made his ultimatum; as he watched his best friend abandon him in order to save his life.

Had John been capable of speech at that point, he would have been shouting.

Don't listen to him, Sherlock, you total bloody idiot! Get out of here and forget about me; I've been dead since I got into that bloody cab!

But something deep inside John Watson, some primal instinct or intuition that had trusted Sherlock Holmes from the first moment they met knew that there was no way his flatmate would do the sensible thing. Since he'd joined the army, that same instinct had saved his life more than once; it had also labelled fewer and fewer people trustworthy over the years. But one glimpse of pale eyes that missed nothing and John was handing over his only truly valuable possession to a total stranger. His therapist had been only partially right about his trust issues; he'd never for one moment trusted her, but he did trust Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, that trust was far from being reciprocated. Sherlock had let him go out for a nice evening with his girlfriend while arranging to meet a criminal mastermind with a nasty habit of blowing people up. He'd tried to protect John by excluding him; and if there was one thing the adrenaline junkie former soldier loathed, it was being protected.

He'd had plenty of time to mentally compose the rant he intended to give Sherlock on the subject when he next saw him as he lay paralysed, unable to move even his eyelids.

The moment the door closed behind the young detective Moriarty's people had come scurrying out of the woodwork with medical equipment and a stretcher. One of the more considerate – or possibly security-minded – men had stroked his dry and burning eyes closed even as he was whisked away.

Then, while he was being loaded hurriedly into the ambulance waiting for him, he heard the explosion.

For a good minute, the only thought that registered in his mind sounded a lot like

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock

And then common sense kicked in; Moriarty's only interest in John Watson was as leverage against Sherlock Holmes. If his enemy were dead, the consulting criminal wouldn't be bothering to take a mere army doctor hostage; most likely he'd have ordered them to dump him in an alley somewhere to let the poison do its work.

Still, the worry that gnawed at him refused to abate. His flatmate was not known for looking after himself; if he were injured, he'd ignore it and come chasing after Moriarty anyway. John could just picture Sherlock dismissing stitches or a broken bone as 'boring' and carrying on as normal.

The journey had seemed interminably long; although that was almost certainly just his own perception. The medics had intubated him and the hard plastic tube in his throat was not helping his thought processes, although it definitely was helping his breathing.

Finally, he'd been transferred into a building and placed into a hospital bed. He mentally gave the staff marks out of ten as they hooked him up to a pulse-ox meter, attached an IV drip and connected him to a respirator.

Eight and a half, on average. At least Moriarty employs competent henchmen.

John knew his attempts at distracting himself from the terrifying, disorientating blackness behind his immobilised eyelids weren't going to work for long. He was concentrating on his other senses as much as possible, but there was no substitute for actually being able to see the world around him. The scent of hospital strength disinfectant was heavy on the air; this place had been sterilised recently. It was too quiet to be a normal hospital; John's money was on either a private clinic or some special medical facility Moriarty had set up just for him. He'd been mostly left alone in the intolerable hours since his admission, which suggested the latter; only one quick, professional nurse checking up on him at regular intervals.

The thought had occurred that he had been spending entirely too much time with Sherlock lately.

The helplessness of his situation burned, though. To not be able to speak, or move or even open his eyes was unbearable. It gave him a new sympathy for his flatmate's 'bored' spells. His mind was whirling, but there was nothing to do with it, nothing to focus on… except…

The words whispered into his ear as he lay on the cold tiles at the poolside were haunting him.

Sherlock had declared the previous day that he didn't care about the hostages; all that mattered to him was winning the game, defeating his opponent. He'd claimed that caring about people was a mistake that would only get in his way. The soldier in John almost agreed; but he was a doctor first, and always would be. The thought of just… not caring… that another human being was in danger or pain, physical or emotional, made him sick to his stomach.

The disconnection from the world Sherlock displayed could be almost frightening. Perhaps because he was so much more intelligent than those around him, he'd never truly learned to empathise with them, to understand that they were real people, not walking puzzles murdering one another for his amusement.

And then, in that last critical moment, he'd leaned down and whispered.

"That mistake we discussed earlier? I'm making it now."

Sherlock cared about him; ordinary, normal, average, idiot John Watson. And, even more surprisingly, he'd actually told him so. It was… flattering, in a warm, embarrassed sort of way. He felt rather proud to have created affection in a self- professed sociopath.

It was also the single most terrifying thing that had ever been said to him; which was an achievement, considering. Very few sentences could compare to, "Get down! Sniper!" or the frantic cry of "Medic!" in the wake of a bomb blast.

This was different, though. Rather than the hot, adrenaline-laced fear of imminent death (his own or his patient's), John felt filled with ice. The doctor was scared to his very bones of what his friend would be prepared to do in order to keep him alive. He had no doubt Moriarty would demand some form of ransom; and anyone twisted enough to strap a bomb to a child… Well. The price he would ask was beyond John's limited deductive skills.

Would Sherlock hurt people for me? Steal for me? Kill for me? Surely he's clever enough to realise I'm not worth it… but he does care this time. He's not used to caring. Could he really distance himself from emotions he claims not to feel? Enough to make the right decisions, to be a good man as well as a great one? Could I live with myself if he doesn't? If he chooses me over someone else?

The questions churned in his brain, a more effective torture than any amount of physical discomfort. And worst of all, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

And then Jim Moriarty all but skipped into the room like a three-year-old on Christmas morning, crowing excitedly. "Wakey wakey, Johnny boy!"

The hateful voice alone was enough to make John want to throttle the man. Soft, manicured fingers prised up one reluctant eyelid and pain lanced into John's skull as his iris sought sluggishly to contract against the sudden influx of light.

A mobile phone was waved triumphantly before his one open eye.

"Finally! A message from Sherlock; it feels like I've been waiting forever. That concussion he got from the explosion must've been worse than I thought."

Damn it! Just when he needs a bloody doctor, I'm stuck here in a hospital bed listening to this nutter.

"I just knew you'd be as excited to hear from him as I am," he trilled like a teenage girl. "Shame the message is so predictable. 'I want proof of life and I want it now.' Well, duh. Obvious. I think he deserves to be punished for that, don't you?"

John wished urgently that he could point out the futility of asking questions to a paralysed captive with a respirator tube stuck down his throat.

"How about…" Moriarty turned the phone around and began to tap out a reply, reading it out as he typed. "Patience, my dear. It can take ten days to get over a concussion. Take it easy until then and we'll see. M… and… send. There; that should teach him a few manners, shouldn't it, Doctor? Ten days of boredom for a mind like Sherlock Holmes must feel like a life sentence."

Unfortunately, having been on the receiving end of some of Sherlock's experiments, John couldn't help but agree. To Sherlock, there was nothing worse than boredom. And then his now watering eye spotted a familiar engraving on the back of the mobile in Moriarty's hand.

Wait a minute, that's my bloody phone! Talk about adding insult to injury; I'm going to have to pay for this psycho to text my own bloody ransom demands! That's it; strangulation's too good for him. I'm going to dismember the bastard and let Sherlock experiment on his body parts!

The mobile in question beeped a text alert, loud and slightly echoing in the quiet room.

"Ooh; that was quick," the consulting criminal exclaimed, opening the message. "Must have him all riled up; I love it when that happens. 'Not good enough! SH.' Exclamation mark in a text, that's never a good sign. And so rude, too; time for a little threat, I think. Let's go with… Then I suppose I'll have to turn off the respirator and put your little dog out of his misery. Shame. M."

Moriarty leaned close, whispering conspiratorially. "Don't worry, though, Doctor Watson; I wouldn't kill you quite yet. We're only just starting the next phase of the game."

Staring into the dark eyes that hovered mere inches from his own, John could physically see the insanity dancing in them. He was actually relieved when the next text distracted his captor.

"You won't do that. He's too useful. SH. Well, he may be right, but dear Sherlock doesn't need to know that, does he?" The unconcealed glee on Moriarty's face made it disturbingly childlike. John was reminded inescapably of his flatmate at a crime scene; the comparison made him nauseous. He struggled to close his blurred and furiously watering eye. Even the blackness was better than watching Moriarty text death threats with that joyous, agonisingly familiar Sherlock expression on his face.

John cursed his treacherous muscles as they refused to obey him.

"Not if you're not going to play along. Be a good boy and do nothing at all for the next ten days and maybe JW will be alive at the end of it. No cheating. M." He hit send and then looked suddenly thoughtful, turning the mobile over and over in his hands.

"D'you think I was too cruel?" The criminal asked, almost… nervously. "I don't want to scare him off, and he does seem very attached to you, for some reason. Maybe a picture would cheer him up a little. You do look adorably pathetic lying there winking at the world." He held up the phone and took a photo.

The click felt louder than it should have as Moriarty sent the picture.

He pocketed John's phone and then reached out to stroke his eye closed again. The former soldier was quite glad he was incapable of flinching at the touch.

"They say a picture is worth a thousand words," he all but purred. "It's certainly worth more than the hundred and fifty characters in a text message. Ciao for now, Johnny."

And then he was gone, and John was left alone with the blackness.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

OMG that was hard work! A conversation where one of the characters is incapable of speech is amazingly difficult to write, and I'm not certain all of it worked. I think my Moriarty is a bit too camp. If anyone has any comments or pointers, please hit the magic button and let me know.