Author: Warnings for Jim being a twisted jerk, and John being a foul-mouthed sailor.

John realized what was going to happen as soon as he felt his muscles start to tremble. Hoping to avoid as many bumps and bruises as possible, he rolled off his bed and onto the floor of his room. It was significantly more spacious and he was less likely to thwack his head on a hard surface there. Moriarty simply grinned down at him from atop the desk.

"I think you chose the wrong one, Johnny-boy."

John truly wanted to snap back at the bastard, but his spasming body would not allow it. He could feel his heart thudding a steady, uneven beat in his chest as he lost more and more control of himself. He didn't know if the irregular heart rate was due to whatever toxin he had injected himself with, or if it was caused by fear of what was to come. Having never experienced a seizure before, John could only rely on what he learned in med school and saw in patients to guide him. Strangely, he was most worried about the possibility of losing control of his bladder; he didn't want that bastard Jim cackling at him while he laid in his own piss.

Coherent thought quickly abandoned John as the drug took full effect. The world was reduced to sparks of color and a crushing blast of indecipherable noise. He wanted to cry out as his body ripped itself to shreds, but even the ability to breath properly had been stolen from him. He was choking, he was drowning, he was being pounded into the floor by a sledgehammer.

Even when his vision shattered into a broken mosaic of agony, he could hear Jim above him, laughing as if watching a comedy act.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim had to admit that the doctor was more resilient than he had first given him credit for. First, there was that whole business of him lashing out and punching Jim in the jaw a good ten minutes before he should've been able to so much as wiggle his toes. And now, here he was, sitting up and wiping the slobber off his face only two minutes after having a grand mal seizure. Jim supposed that proper motivation could do such things to a man.

"How long?"

Jim didn't even pretend to need clarification. He knew exactly where John's mind was at the moment. "Forty four minutes."

Despite looking very much as if he were suffering from seasickness, John clambered back onto the edge of the bed and thrust aside the now empty syringe. He stared listlessly at the four remaining ones before choosing the syringe on the far right. Jim had expected such an approach and was happy to see that his prediction was once again correct. He smirked as John jabbed the needle into the soft flesh of his elbow. His still-quaking hand prevented him from injecting the drug smoothly, and John was likely going to have a nasty bruise there tomorrow morning. Jim took great pleasure in being the cause of such simple pains.

John gave a small gasp as the drug took effect. He gripped his arm at the injection site, cringing in pain and unsuccessfully trying to hold back a scream. Instead of being silenced, the sound came out as a sharp whimper that made Jim break into a broad grin.

"Oooh, this one's going to be fun, isn't it, Johnny?"

Jim thought he heard the doctor grunt out "Fuck you" as he rolled into a ball on the bedspread, but he couldn't be sure. He would have to remind John to speak up during the rest of their game. He didn't want to miss a single snivel or whine.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

John was burning from the inside out. He could feel the drug coursing flames through his bloodstream, beginning at the injection site and flaring into an uncontrollable inferno throughout all his organs. He knew he was screaming, could feel his vocal chords tearing at the strain, but he couldn't stop, not when his blood was rolling tides of magma.

He dreamed of diving into a pool in the middle of winter. Of rolling in snow and being frozen in a glacier. He fantasized about a wave crashing down on him and dragging him into an artic-cold ocean, where he breathes ice water into his charred lungs and drinks it into his scorched body. He imagined tearing his heart out of his chest and locking it in an icebox so it would cease pumping that boiling liquid through his person.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

As awareness and rationality slowly returned to John, he was able to piece back together his situation. He had apparently rolled or thrown himself off the bed at some point, because he was now laying on a hard surface with his cheek pressed to the ground. Despite the fact that his veins still felt scalded and sweat had soaked through his clothing, he was shivering. He could feel tear tracks drying on the sides of his face, but he couldn't bring himself to move to wipe them away. He was afraid that moving would rekindle the flames.

" 'Ow long?" His voice was weak and rough, both side effects of screaming too loud and too long.

"Twenty seven minutes." Jim's voice was radiant, especially when compared to John's. He sounded as if he had just been given a particularly wonderful Christmas gift. "That was good, very good, John! I believe you're learning your lesson well."

John closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the psychopath's prattle. Seventeen minutes. He had lost all that time, and Sherlock was sure to suffer for it. He heaved himself up on shaking arms, but he was too weak to stand. Instead, he crawled back to the desk and grasped the nearest syringe. He wished with every fiber of his being that this was the right one, that he could stop playing this twisted game with Moriarty, but he also suspected that Jim had been rearranging the needles to ensure that the game lasted as long as he wanted it to.

As he fumbled with the plunger, John cast a glance in Sherlock's direction. The sight was not a reassuring one. The detective's skin had grown a few shades more pale, and his lips had a slightly grey tinge to them. John hoped that he would be able to select the right syringe in time. He hoped that he could end it all before Sherlock suffered the consequences of Jim's sick mind. He wasn't sure that he would be able to do it. With his stamina waning, John estimated that it would take him at least ten minutes to recuperate from each shot. Probably slightly more. This didn't leave much of a margin of error for Sherlock.

John was hardly aware of when the drug entered his system. He simply felt himself yanking the needle out of his arm with only a vague knowledge of doing so. He did, however, notice when his skin began crawling in a rather peculiar fashion. The strange tingling sensation quickly evolved into a horrible itching that made him claw at his arms violently. While terribly uncomfortable, however, John realized that, as far as tortures go, this one was not that bad. He took one last look at Sherlock before deciding what his next move would be. He once again grabbed the nearest syringe and stabbed it into himself without a second thought. The sooner he could get Sherlock the anti-toxin, the better.

John closed his eyes and laid his head back against the mattress, hoping to feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that would prove he had finally selected the correct needle. He was not so lucky. With a jolt, he felt the world begin to tilt on its axis, making him cry out and grip the mattress to keep from sliding into the wall. His breathing quickened as the room flipped itself over, causing him to clutch onto his purchase with white-knuckled force. He had just enough focus of mind to shove the last remaining syringe towards Jim, stuttering out a demand that he give it to Sherlock. He didn't see whether it was administered or not as the room spun sickeningly around him, and he lost his grip on the bed and dropped into the swirling vortex.

He found when the room stilled that he had landed atop his bed once again. Only it wasn't right, nothing was right. The walls pitched inward, nearly falling onto him and crushing him to death. They seemed to always creak backwards at the last possible moment, leaving him cringing against his pillows in terror of certain death. He tried to leap up and get to the door to escape, but the sheets lashed out and gripped him in a fanged mouth, tripping him and dragging him back to the bed. He fought against them, but his flailing was useless against their serpentine grasp. They wrapped about his torso, choking the oxygen out of his lungs. He gripped the headboard and attempted to pull himself out of their binding. Instead, his hand plunged into a nest of tiny spiders, and they began crawling across his flesh and plunging their miniscule fangs into his skin. He cried out and began clawing viciously at them in an attempt to rip himself free of their sting. No matter how many he managed to tear out of himself, however, hundreds, no, thousands more poured out of the nest and onto his body. He gave a petrified sob, but this simply allowed the swarm of arachnids to tumble into his mouth. John spat and coughed and screamed as he felt them tearing into the tender flesh of his mouth, and yet they still remained. He was helpless against the onslaught as their venom dragged him under.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"You know, John, you've proven to be a lot more fun than I originally thought. I never once considered the possibility that you would inject yourself with two of the toxins at once. I must say, the results are rather pleasing." Jim's voice pierced through the blackened fog to which John had escaped. "I'll have to keep this in mind the next time we play this game."

John's coated mouth wouldn't allow him to speak clearly, but he was still gratified to know that he could still make a sound of a sort.

"I'm sorry, what was that you said, Johnny-boy? It's awfully hard to understand you when you mumble like that."

"Said...Shut the fuck up." Apparently John had bitten through his tongue at some point or another. He could taste the metallic bite of blood in his mouth, and the hand he wiped across his face came back smeared with crimson.

"That's much better, Johnny. Although, I'm afraid that I couldn't understand you completely earlier. I did my best to obey what you said, but I may have misheard you. To me, it sounded like you said, "Refill these for me." I don't know why you would have wanted them refilled, but here you go!" Jim beamed at John as he held up three fully filled needles. Not understanding, John sat up and let his eyes dart to the desk. Only two empty syringes remained.

"No..." John didn't know whether to cry or lunge for Moriarty's throat at that moment. He felt exhausted, defeated, and, above all else, infuriated. "No, you fucking bastard, no!" He surged towards Jim in an effort to lay hands on him, to choke him, to crush his windpipe with his bare hands and then stab him with those godforsaken needles, but John simply pitched forward and hit the ground with a dull thud. It was then that he noticed how badly his arm hurt, as if it had been torn open. He writhed into a sitting position and gave himself a good looking over. He could see many bruises blossoming across his skin, the worst of which was the already violently colored one in the crook of his elbow. His eyes trailed farther up that same arm and found the source of his discomfort. There, he had apparently clawed particularly viciously at the skin, for his arm was ripped open in multiple ragged cuts, the kind of cuts that only fingernails could inflict. He cringed at the sight, at the renewed fear of what he had experienced. His gut twisted as he realized that he was in no condition to resist Moriarty, and he knew without a doubt that he would be forced to replay the game.

"How much time?"

Jim looked like he might burst with glee. He glanced at his watch for only a moment before responding, "Thirteen minutes."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath before snatching the three syringes from Jim's grip. He jabbed the first one into his arm and waited only a few seconds before the burning sensation began to creep through his veins once again. Quickly, before he lost the ability to focus, he plunged the second one into his skin. He was rewarded with a sudden increase in his heart rate and a jitteriness in his fingers. He knew this would only served to make the first toxin work through his body more quickly, but he was glad to have discovered Sherlock's savior on only his second guess. He held the empty syringe out to Jim and said, as slowly and clearly as possible despite the cut tongue and multiple toxins in his system, "Refill this and give it to Sherlock."

Jim's smile twisted into a scowl as he wrenched the empty syringe from John and refilled it from the proper vial. He paused as he held the needle over Sherlock's exposed arm, glancing to the floor where John was beginning to pant and writhe. "How about you two take your medicine together, then? He gets this if you give yourself the last one."

Jim may have been pleasantly grinning, but his eyes were filled with malice. John knew that he was helpless against Jim's sadistic whims, so he simply raised the final syringe and plunged it into his arm, watching as Moriarty did the same with Sherlock. "Let...me...see..." John dragged himself across the floor and next to Sherlock's chair. Reaching a quivering arm up to the pallid man, he gripped his wrist and sighed as he felt the pulse steadily increasing in speed. Good.

John gave a miserable cry and collapsed to the floor as he felt the second toxin take hold. He curled in around himself, no longer able to ignore the flames licking at his insides. He was only dimly aware of tremors increasing in magnitude until they hit a violent crescendo. His screams were reduced to weak sobs as his body began to tear itself apart once again.

This time, he was certain that he was going to piss himself. Damn.