Oppressive heat. It was eating John's brains- frying them up and eating them. He had to force himself to think, to help, to feel. Good.

The restlessness was back. It was different than what Sherlock'd felt before. He couldn't place this feeling, couldn't reason it- his chest hurt, he put the heel of his palm to the center of it and rubbed. Not so good.

John found competence. He found usefulness. He found that eyes were trained on him and waiting for what he had to say, waited for him to save them. That wasn't so normal.

Sherlock hadn't eaten in sixteen hours, hadn't slept in forty-eight. Well – forty-seven hours, fifty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds as of…now. That was normal.

"Amazing," someone said over John's shoulder as he stitched up some poor soul's gut. He'd live- John was a great doctor. John didn't like the sound of someone saying praises he had often given Sherlock. Those words weren't theirs, they were his- for him.

"Hey Freak," Donovan's voice was loud. Sherlock cringed. It hurt his head. His chest hurt again. He'd much rather hear John tell him how amazing his 'work' is. After all, he had started doing it all just for that reason- for him.

John Watson had been wrong. There wasn't a voice there to tell him, "No John, you're being stupid. Look at it closer, like this." There wasn't a voice to reassure him in any way. The blood was too much; even pressing his hands to the wound it was pouring out too quickly. He needed to get the rest of the crew onto the Chinook and back to the base. This was too much for a trauma doctor, a paramedic and a nurse. The fire they were under was too heavy for the Chinook to stay much longer. If they didn't get on the chopper, they were done for. "Blaine!" he yelled out for the paramedic who was cowered down, hands tucked around his head, a few feet away. "Help me move him."

It had been John's damn fault. He should have seen the ambush- he could see every damn little clue to a murder when Sherlock stood next to him but he couldn't see a group of insurgents lying metres away waiting to attack?

The unit was held down under a blaze of bullets and bodies he couldn't save. Then pain, searing was a good word even though he heard it from the mouths of many a wounded soldier. It was accurate- a bullet really tore a searing, burning wound through your body. It seemed to shatter his entirety in mind filling pain.

He had to let go, he realized, and get to the Chinook if he wanted to live, to continue to save others, or if he wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again. John looked down into the man's face, John's hands pressed deep into his stomach with blood pooling around his fingers, and he froze. The man was dead. Probably had been for the last few minutes of John's panic. Jerking his head upwards he caught sight of Blaine charging blindly for the Chinook's open backend.

Pushing off of the leg that didn't have a gaping hole in the thigh, John lifted himself mostly upright and ran. He ran as fast as his broken body could manage. Once he hit the dusty metal floor of the Chinook a darkness overtook him. He must have had lost a lot of blood in that run for the Chinook.

When he woke up next he was in a hospital bed. The reversal was odd, lying in it instead of standing over it. Staying still he mentally checked himself. There wasn't too much pain if he was lying still: a slight dull ache in his leg and a small tremor in his hand. The left one, of course. John shifted his leg and immediately regretted it. Well, that limp wouldn't be psychosomatic now. He wondered if he'd be able to get rid of it this time. He would probably need Sherlock. John heaved a heavy sigh. He knew he'd probably be discharged again, for his leg, and he knew exactly where he'd end up. Coming here may have ground some sense of morality back into him but there was something new bothering him.

John missed Sherlock, really missed him. John knew it probably wasn't a good thing as they didn't exactly have the healthiest of relationships. But then, where either of them exactly normal? Maybe the relationship they had wasn't healthy for others but for them- it kept them both sane.

"Bodies," he murmured to himself. Here they hadn't been bodies. They'd had names, faces and backgrounds. Here John had files on them, dog tags and could talk with them. Perhaps that's what he needed to do, make sure he was doing something with the victims. He was sure Lestrade wouldn't have a problem with him doing more work with the cases. He'd at least keep Sherlock tame.

God, he'd been a bleeding idiot, hadn't he? Leaving Sherlock alone…Sure the man had been working with the Yard alone before John came along but now that something had changed, was John really smart for leaving? There was so much that probably changed. Sherlock could get out of hand but John had been working on that. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John had been slipping. Maybe he just needed some nights out with Lestrade to reground himself in a normal person's mind frame. He could go back to Sherlock, keep the man sane, watch crap telly with Mrs. Hudson, run around London solving murders for the Yard, and maybe start having drinks with Lestrade talking about the victims. "It's where I belong."

"Dr. John Watson?" A feminine voice drifted through his thoughts and John's eyes shot open.

"Yes, that's me." John struggled into a sitting position, careful not to jar his leg too badly. He couldn't quite bite back the grimace on his face.

"Hello, John. I'm Dr. Elizabeth State. It's good to see you awake and responsive."

So not good then- if responsive was a step up. "It's fine, we don't have play the niceties. I'm being discharged again, aren't I?" John smiled slowly, trying to let a feeling of disappointment aid his guess. He had to fight back the flood of relief at not needing an excuse to get out.

Dr. State's lips followed the slow progression of a sad smile and her head bobbed in a "yes", looking a lot like a bird.

"Figured as much, when I woke and moved the damn leg." He looked down at it and pushed the blanket out of the way to look at the bandages. "Can't just forget about the limp this time 'round."

"No, probably not. This one is not in your head, John." Dr. State reached out a hand and let it rest on his shoulder. It was a weak show of comfort that wasn't actually needed. Even if he did have a limp, John would cane his way around London following the sociopath who'd now consumed his thoughts.

John looked up at the woman with a question in his cocked eyebrow. "When do they ship me back?"

"Tonight, I believe. There's a plane coming in for a few others." A phone went off and she glanced at the bulky white thing. "I think that's for you. Your psychiatrist wanted a chat, since, you know- the leg." That small courteous smile was back at the corner of her lips.

"Right, thanks." John shifted to the edge of the bed and pushed up. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. In fact, it hurt a little less then when he'd first gotten his psychosomatic one. Interesting. He wondered what Sherlock would have to say about that. Probably something along the lines of "don't care" or "tedious". More than likely both. Limping just a few steps to the phone on the table he picked it up. "Dr. John Watson."

"Why hello, Dr. Watson. This is your new doctor; you can call me Dr. Jim!" The voice was happy, high pitched, and too damned giddy for John's sake.

"Moriarty. How did you get this number? If Sherlock is-"

"Don't be simple John, I didn't need to hurt him. You've done that quite well for me." Moriarty laughed into the phone, loud and happy.

John bit down on his tongue to try and keep his temper in check. He unlocked his jaw once he tasted a burst of coppery sweetness. "What do you want then, hmm?"

"Oh Johnny boy, don't play coy. Obviously, you. You're so much fun to play with. It's interesting to watch you be tough, to watch how Sherlock rushes in to save you. How you try to save him." John could hear something in the background of their conversation, perhaps a car.

"I'm all the way in Afghanistan, Moriarty. You're not going to be playing games while I'm here." He prayed the man didn't have the connections that Mycroft had.

Another laugh, this one chillingly close. John could swear it sounded as if the man was standing right next to him. "Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. You're so naïve; I can see why he likes you. The emotions you show are interesting, unpredictable. You're unlike any other specimen. We'll have a lot of fun together, don't you think?"

"I think I'm ending this conversation, Moriarty. I don't have time for this." John hung up before the man could throw a protest verging on the sickly flamboyant. John had no problem with gays, hell he was crushing on his flatmate, but that flittering and squealing that Moriarty took up would set his teeth to gnashing.

With a steadying breath, John limped back to his bed and fell down onto it. It creaked and shook until his weight settled. "What a disaster…"

"That was awfully rude of you, John Watson."

John flew up in bed and looked into the doorway. There stood Jim Moriarty and a team of what looked like some secret Black Ops team, right out of some action movie. Shit, this wouldn't end well… John debated briefly getting up and charging the man, gun leading the way, but then couldn't figure out where his gun was. Probably taken from him and set with his stuff while he wouldn't need it in the medical tent being in this shape. Damn…

A million thoughts flew through his head at once. Dr. State had to be around; Mycroft wasn't keeping an eye on him; he needed a gun; his leg hurt; Sherlock wouldn't know what happened… Then before he could throw out some wise crack, two men rushed forward and snatched him under the arms. How the hell they were getting away with this in a military base, John would never know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Between the power Mycroft and Moriarty had over the government and all other seedy operations, John was afraid for the world all of a sudden. Small countries beware, there was a sociopath and psychopath on the loose. Hmm, was Mycroft a sociopath like his brother? Perhaps not. John turned his thoughts back to the present situation to notice the butt end of a very big riffle coming around and down to the back of his skull.

John opened his eyes to darkness but his ears pricked as the low sound of…something reverberated his ear drums. Music, it was music. The tune was old, cheerful, maybe from the twenties. It was disconcerting, set his teeth to gnashing. If this was Mycroft's doing, he would not be apologizing for leaving Sherlock.

It's a lovely day tomorrow,
tomorrow is a lovely day.
Come and feast your tear dimmed eyes,
on tomorrow's clear blue skies.

Blinking a few times as the lyrics passed through his mind, John tried to move. Lifting his arms he heard the rattle of chains and felt the bite of heavy metal into his wrists. Not Mycroft, Moriarty. The events of the…whenever he'd been taken flooded his mind. Putting his hands on the ground, John felt since he couldn't see through the darkness. The ground was cool, cement, mostly flat but with a few worn flaws. Basement then, more than likely. That meant he wouldn't be heard. Or seen. He wouldn't be found. His heart was starting to pick up in beat, pumping blood through his panicking body- fueling the adrenaline high.

John breathed, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He remained sitting, hands pushing into the ground. He needed to keep calm, keep his temper in check, and think. Closing his eyes, since they weren't doing much good anyway, John listened. It was quiet, but for the music. Even though your heart is weary, and every little thing looks gray. Great, Moriarty; he truly was a twisted bastard. He took in a deep breath and the damp, musky smell that greeted his senses only backed up his guess about a basement. There wasn't much else to smell, nothing coming from upstairs, nothing like cologne suggesting Moriarty was there with him. Tendering his shot right leg, John climbed to his feet and kept his back against the wall. The chains were bulky but he could move with them. They even reached a few strides away from the wall. He took just one more step, testing just how far he could go and his arms were pulled back, shoulders popping upwards in a painful direction.

He couldn't go much further than six or seven steps then, but he hadn't come into contact with anything around that area. Nothing to work with. John really wished the lights were on. He'd prefer to see what was down here, to see where he was, to see if there was even a slight chance that he would be able to get out of this.

A door to his right shuffled open with a shudder and John's head snapped up to it. The light from its entryway illuminated a nicely crafted wooden staircase. It was a darker wood, reddish, expensive maybe. A figure very familiar stood at the top, shoes shined and suit immaculate. Jim Moriarty. He descended the stairs slowly, taking a pause as each foot came in contact with each lower step. The deliberate steps were infuriating and John had to take to biting down on his tongue again to keep from screaming at the man. John had a lot of patience, living with Sherlock had proved that, but in a case like this he wanted things over and done with. If Moriarty was going to torture him for a while then kill him, he just wanted to get right to the pain. He didn't have the personality for foreplay.

"Dear Dr. John Watson, it is ever so nice to see you awake." Jim reached out a flicked something on the wall next to him near the bottom of the stairs.

Light shocked John's eyes and he cringed back, taking a few limping steps. His right leg was throbbing but he ignored it. "Where are we?"

Moriarty laughed. "London, of course. I'm not one for going too far from home for too long. Now, let's see that leg of yours, shall we?" Moriarty tucked his hands in his pockets and stood a few steps from where John could reach. His eyes were riveted on John's leg.

John couldn't help but follow the gaze and look down. There was a bit of blood through the bandage and slacks. Hmm, he was in a new pair of fatigues and his brown military t-shirt. His mouth twitched as he reached a hand down to test the tenderness of the wound. It stung when he put pressure on it. He probably tore the stitching when Moriarty had snatched him. The sound of snappy footsteps made him look up and then step back into the wall.

Moriarty paused and slowly grinned at him, showing a fine row of teeth. "Now Johnny boy, don't be so bashful. I'd like to get that cleaned up for you."

"Hmph," was all John managed to muster.

"Oh come now, it's damp down here. It could get infected." Moriarty pouted at him, lips turned upside down and quivering just slightly.

He really knew how to annoy John. He was right though; John was bleeding through and the basement wasn't the perfect environment for healing. "How about you just give me the medical kit and I'll fix it myself?"

"Very clever, but no. I'll be right back, you just hang in there Johnny boy." Moriarty turned around and headed up the stairs once more.

The light was left on and now that John wasn't focused on Moriarty standing in front of him, he could get a good look at the room. The wall he was at was to the left of the stairwell. On its right side was a loop of metal built into the ground and a significantly shorter chain than the ones binding John's wrists now. Directly across from the stairs was a metal table with leather straps. Off to the far side of that table was a medical cart. John could only imagine what was resting inside of it.

Footsteps back at the top of the stairs, three sets, made John's head snap up in furious attention. Moriarty was descending once more with two of those Black Ops guys in tow. Their faces were hard set; one had a broken nose and the other had deep set eyes. Moriarty's pristine suit looked so out of place in this whole scenario. That smile perched delicately on his lips looked so perfectly correct. John was glad he couldn't read minds. It might be better not knowing what was going to happen next.

The two men approached John after a quick nod from Moriarty. They came up on either side and while John thought about fighting his way out, their grips on his arms were too tight. "Hold him still, wouldn't want to mess anything up." Moriarty made his way over, swinging a set of keys on one of his fingers. "Hold still Doctor, and we'll get you set up on the table there so we can look at your leg."

John waited, knowing that Moriarty would put that key in the locks on his arms. John might be able to fight his way out when they attempted the transfer. Hearing the lock click open, his wrists creaked in soft relief. Then he was being thrust forward. His leg stumbled and he found himself faltering forwards, with no balance to even attempt escape. They kept pushing him, not allowing him to keep good footing and the pain in his leg would have kept him from stepping down on that right foot anyway. He was quickly laid out on the table- throat, chest, wrists and ankles tied down with the leather straps.

Once he was in position, mind on fire from the pain in his leg, the two men glanced at Moriarty and took their leave. Moriarty made his way to the medical cart and pulled open a drawer. He walked around the side of the table and came to rest at John's leg, holding something at his side. Lifting his hands, he pulled up a large pair of scissors. John tensed immediately as Moriarty gripped at the cloth of his pant leg, above the wound in his thigh. Moriarty put the scissors to the fabric and cut it away, revealing the bandaged area. "Don't be so jumpy, Johnny. I told you, I wanted this fixed up didn't I?"

"Sorry if I'm not up to believing you," John said watching as Moriarty cut the rest of it away, leaving most of his leg bare and exposed. It didn't look so bad, even when Moriarty cut away the bandage. That was good. It looked to be healing.

Then Moriarty was back to the medical cart, riffling through another drawer. He was back with a suture needle and heavy thread. This was going to hurt. John closed his eyes and listened, waiting to feel the sharp prick of the needle into his tender flesh. He set his teeth hard against one another and counted in his head. At twenty-three he felt it, the dig of a needle, right at the top end of the wound. And it became a rhythm- back and forth, in and out, back and forth. He grimaced, gasped a few times, but kept his eyes shut. At least it was getting restitched.

"Sherlock did this to you, didn't he?" Moriarty's voice cut through John's counting concentration.

"What?" John gasped out, not able to keep his eyes closed anymore.

"You left because of Sherlock. Your little mind couldn't handle what he was changing in you." Moriarty was practically sing-song at this point. To the beat of the newest song.

The tune playing behind the pain of the needle was upbeat and words were pouring into John's ears. Rose of England thou shall fade not here. Proud and bright from growing year to year.

Then Moriarty's voice again, stitch-word, stitch-word, stitch-word. "It's Sherlock's fault. He's not like everyone else. He was tainting your precious morality. He was changing you. Then you got blown up and you're here now, playing with me. We should thank Sherlock, shouldn't we?" Moriarty smiled and looked into the corner of the room. John's eyes followed and he saw a camera mounted in the corner, red light gleaming from one side. "Poor Sherlock, lost his little pet. It's all his fault for abusing his pet though. Now, now it's my turn to play. Tell him it's his fault, John. Tell him."

"No! It's not his fault. I'm the one who slipped- he's just so damned addictive. How's that his fault? And I just- fuck you." John didn't think he would lose his patience so soon. There was something about Moriarty that took away all his self-control.

Moriarty laughed and tossed the needle and excess thread onto the flat of the medical cart. "Good session John Watson. Now you get some rest. I'll be back down later with some dinner for you." He went to the stairwell, flicked off the light and ascended, shutting the door behind him. The music kept going.

John woke up still strapped down to the table. The ceiling light in the center of the room was bright and John had to squint his eyes to see clearly through the transfer of sleep-darkness to sudden lightness. There was something lightly smacking the side of his face. It was Jim Moriarty's hand. John jerked his head to the side away from the hand. Quickly his mind flew through a check over of himself. He was still in the brown t-shirt and the ripped fatigues. His dog-tags were dangling over the top of his neck where the leather strip wasn't covering skin. They felt oddly heavy against his dry throat. His leg was pleasantly numb.

Moriarty stood a few feet back now, watching eerily as John pulled himself fully into reality. "Good, let's get started shall we? I think we'll start with a question."

John stared up into the man's eyes, waiting. Don't give him anything. If he's taping- If Sherlock sees... not a word, not a scream. Nothing. His gray-hazel eyes were set staring into Moriarty's.

"Do you believe in God, Johnny Boy?" Moriarty gave a grim, contemplative smile as he waited for John to answer him.

John remained silent, clenching his fists together as he focused on listening and forming some sort of plan. If he was patient his leg would get stronger. He could base the passing of days by the meals that Moriarty brought down.

"There is no such as thing God, John. There is no such thing as good and evil. They're man-made conventions. Like the concept of heat and coldness. Cold is a lack of heat, evil is a lack of good- I think I'm lacking good, Johnny Boy. So this should be fun." He chuckled, not that flirty effeminate laugh he used with Sherlock. This one was dark, cruel, and certainly lacking heat.

John swallowed and went deep into his head to find his strength for what was to come. He heard Moriarty moving around the room, opening and closing drawers to the medical cart. Footsteps announced his presence to the right side of the table and John stopped breathing a moment, waiting. Warm hands curled around his fingers, turning his hand around and prying open his fingers. John's eyes flew open and he looked down, watching Moriarty's fingers move over his gun hand. "The tremor isn't in this one, is it? I know it's your gun hand, but your tremor is in the other…I wonder if we could make this one twitch…"

John felt his breath catch as Moriarty brought up a small sewing pin with a yellow ball covering the top. "Also, I'll pose my second question. When I get a straight answer, we'll move on." Moriarty looked up with that twisted grin. "Maybe." He sank the pin into the middle of John's palm.

A gasp was ripped from John's dry throat and his arm jerked. He didn't cry out though and his eyes were fixed on Moriarty. The question hadn't been posed yet. Good, then John could withstand this longer without worrying about accidently answering some Sherlock-damning question.

"Oh, don't worry. The question is coming Johnny boy. Don't let your resolve get too strong now. I want you to last, but I am a busy man." He pulled the pin out of John's palm and a bead of red pooled at the marked point. The retraction of the pin sent a jolt of shock through John's body. John's hand shook when Moriarty dragged the sharp tip across the outside of his palm to his trigger finger. He stabbed it into the base of the pointer finger and John's arm jerked again. "So," he drawled slowly. "Tell me, tell me just how much you hate him. Sherlock Holmes. Tell me why you ran out. Tell me how you hate who he is." The pin was pulled out again and Moriarty danced it up to the middle joint, jabbing it in again.

John held his hand still this time, pain flooding his nerves with phantom fire and scrambling his mind. Sherlock was infectious, that's why. He wouldn't say it though. He didn't hate Sherlock. Sherlock's not infectious, you're just an idiot. He cringed when the pin sank into the tip of his finger. He could feel the warm bubbling of blood; rivulets of warmth playing on top of the fired nerves.

"Your hand is shaking Dr. Watson." Moriarty pulled the pin away, eyes fixed on the trembling hand. "How many pin pricks do you think, until you can't handle your gun as well?"

Grinding his teeth together, John looked up at the ceiling and tried to block out Moriarty's words. He could take the torture, it wasn't so bad. It was the questions, the thoughts Moriarty put into his head…

With a frustrated yell, Moriarty pushed the pin deep into the base of John's thumb. Blood surged from the wound and he let out a scoffing, satisfied bark of laughter. "Right, see you at dinner then." The light went out. John was left with pain in his hand and darkness for company.