The next morning, John awoke to find the space next to him empty and a note on the nightstand that read: I could have blown up the entire street, and you wouldn't have woken up. Might try it sometime just to prove a point. –JM

Letting out a soft chuckle, John took the note and put it with the other one before making breakfast and puttering about the house a bit more. Part of him wondered if he could convince James to take him out to the park again. Or just out somewhere. Anywhere. Even if he couldn't get out again, he made a promise to himself that after the month was over, he was going to spend at least the next two months going outside every day in order to enjoy the freedom of doing so. His day went on as normal until around noon. Just as he was preparing to make lunch, he heard a crash down the hall. He froze, listening carefully as two people thundered down the hall, stopping in front of John's door and pounding on it. He tensed, reaching down and grabbing a kitchen knife, as waited to see if it was just the drunks again. When he heard a kick to the door, he realised that it wasn't. John shifted silently to the side, debating if he should place a piece of furniture between him and the people breaking in or if he should get the first jump as soon as the door opened. In a split second, his soldier side decided to get the first jump. He leapt over to the door and slid to the side of it. A moment later, the door burst open, pieces of wood breaking off into the flat. In a second, John rounded the door, grabbed the nearest man to him and yanked him forward. He pinned the man's arm behind his back and pressed the knife into the man's neck.

"Boss, wait!" the man exclaimed, taking John off guard and making him hesitate. "We're here to protect you. We made a terrible mistake."

"Boss?" John echoed before he felt realisation wash over him. "I'm not your boss."

The man in front of him let out a groan. "Sir, we know it's you. We asked your driver where you've been staying lately. Please, sir, this is important."

"I'm not James Moriarty," John reiterated before looking at the other man to see why he hadn't tried to free his buddy yet. He noticed that the man held a hand to his side and that his shirt was stained dark. "You're injured." As the doctor side took over once more, he pulled away from the first man in order to inspect it better. The shirt was ripped as well – so knife – and going from how much blood there was, it was most likely a stab wound as opposed to a simple scrape. Now this had just become remarkably interesting. "Come inside, both of you. Tell me what happened."

The men hesitantly stepped into the flat as John headed over to grab the first aid kit. Honestly, he used this thing less when he lived with Sherlock. The injured man sat down at the table, letting out a low groan as he did so. Meanwhile, the other one began to explain, "We were doing the job you gave us-"

"For the last bloody time, I'm not James Moriarty! I'm not your boss, okay?"

"Then what are you doing in the boss's flat?" the injured man countered.

John brought the kit over and responded, "That's above your pay grade, let me assure you."

"Right," the other man murmured, sizing John up. "Well, what we're about to tell you is probably above your pay grade as well. We really should only be telling the boss this. Happen to know where he is?"

"I assume he's working," John responded with a bit of a bite to his voice. He pulled away the shirt and said, "And you should tell me what happened so I know how to properly treat the wound. Was the blade sharp? Dull? Did it break in the wound? Do you know if it was poisoned? How were you stabbed? Was it a precise movement? Or by accident?"

"We-" the injured man began.

The other man cut him off, "Don't!"

"It's not your life on the line right now!" the injured man countered before wincing as John began to clean up some of the blood. "We were supposed to rough up this guy. You know, just to make sure he didn't pursue his custodial rights. What we didn't know was that the woman had been running her mouth about the fact that she had found a solution. Nor did we know that this guy works for the Russian cartel that's been invading our territory for the last couple of months. So he and his buddy were ready for me when I dragged him into an alleyway. We had a small scuffle – I knocked his buddy out, I will have you know – before he managed to lodge my own knife into my side."

"And what happened to the knife?" John pressed as he examined the wound. Clean. Deeper than he would like. Assuming nothing vital was hit, which appeared to be the case, he would just need some stitches and time off.

"Yanked it out myself once the bloke had run off. But he managed to get the boss's instructions from me."

"And we should have never written them down in the first place!" the other man snarled angrily. "Now that cartel has Moriarty's name as the person behind the attack. They're bound to come after him now. That's why we're trying to find him first."

John nodded in acknowledgement as he began to bind the wound. "Why not just send him a text or an email? Or send the message through the higher ups until it reaches him?"

"You think we have such direct ways of contacting him?" the injured man let out with a laugh. "And as if we can trust any of the higher ups. They might be spies. Or worse, they might twist the tale in order to make themselves look better or to gain favour with him."

"We have got to be the ones that tell him," the other man affirmed.

"Tell me what?" a dark voice boomed out.

Jerking around, John looked over to see James Moriarty standing in the doorway. Their eyes met, and James started carefully looking down John's body. After a moment, John realised he was looking for any wounds. He rose to his feet slowly and spread his arms just a tad, showing that he was unharmed. It was then that someone else stepped into the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong build, muscular, dirty blond hair, and piercing green eyes. It took him a moment before he realised that he recognised the man. "Colonel Moran?" The last time he had seen Moran had been in Afghanistan on the battlefield. John got shot through the shoulder while saving his life.

"Captain Watson," he acknowledged, giving a small bow of his head.

"Boss?" the injured man inquired, staring with wide eyes. John was sure that James Moriarty looked nothing like the man thought he would – small, lean, agile, and rather unremarkable in appearance besides his expensive suit. When James's eyes locked onto the injured man, they narrowed. So he had seen it as well – the judgment that the injured man had for the great criminal mastermind – and it had changed him completely. This was Moriarty they were dealing with now.

Luckily, the other man managed to keep his thoughts to himself by not visibly showing them. "Boss, we're here to warn you-" he started to say.

"That you've botched up the simple mugging that I set up for you imbeciles? Yes, I've already heard. Luckily for you, I planned ahead for such an occurrence. Now what I want to know is how you found this place?" Moriarty countered, stepping into the room.

"B-but sir, the Russians-" the man started again.

"I'll deal with the Russians later. They are not my concern right now. Tell me – how did you locate this place? Who told you about it?" he bellowed, his voice reverberating off the walls.

John remained frozen. In his time here, he had forgotten just how terrifying Moriarty could be. Just how psychotic and changeable he could be. How could he have forgotten?

"Sir," he tried to continue.

"The name!"

"Robert Davenport, your driver, sir," the injured man cut in. "He's my uncle, sir, and when he heard what happened, he told me where you had been going to most lately. We got ourselves buzzed in and then asked the doorman which room was yours. When no one answered the door, we broke it down."

Blinking a few times, Moriarty glanced back at Moran. "I've been feeling like it's time for a change. It's not as if I'm meeting clients anymore, so I hardly require a driver." Moran nodded and slipped silently away.

Those words triggered in his mind, and John started forward. "You can't be serious," he responded, keeping his voice low. He glanced back at the two men before taking another step towards Moriarty. "He was just trying to keep you safe. That's hardly something you should be killing him over."

"This is none of your business, John," Moriarty bit back, glancing over at him.

"I'll be damned if you honestly think I'm just going to stand there and let you take any one of their lives. They're trying to protect you!"

Moriarty turned on John, towering over him as he glared down angrily. "You think everything so simple, don't you?" he hissed. "But you should know better than anyone that nothing is black and white."

"I'm not saying it is. I'm saying that killing employees who are just trying to help you is wrong in any situation!" John replied earnestly. "You wonder why no one is loyal to you? Perhaps it's because you show no empathy. No mercy."

"I show no weakness," Moriarty countered. "Now silence yourself. This has nothing to do with you, and if you speak again, I will have a punishment doled out for you as well."

"I'm not one of employee of yours!" John countered.

Moriarty snarled, "That's right! You're in an even worse situation than them."

"Sir," Moran called out, having reappeared in the doorway. "It's been taken care of."

"The injured one first," Moriarty ordered, his eyes remaining locked defiantly on John's.

The injured man began to panic. "B-but sir, we-"

"You cannot even handle a simple mugging. You're useless to me. As such, I now terminate your contract with me. Sebastian will show you out," Moriarty stated matter-of-factly.

Moran roughly grabbed the man's arm and pulled him out of the chair while the other man watched in horror. "B-but Boss, I can redeem myself. I swear. This will only be a one-time occurrence. I promise!" the uninjured man cried out desperately as he tried to rip away from Moran's grasp. "Please, sir," he exclaimed, looking at John, "help us!" John started forward only to be shoved backwards by Moriarty. Moran promptly wrapped a hand over the man's mouth at that point and dragged him out of the room.

"James," John objected, turning and shoving Moriarty back in return, "stop this! This is madness!"

"Is it, though?" Moriarty inquired, his eyes shining brightly.

Suddenly, John heard a whirlwind of movement and felt something cold and sharp against his neck as his right arm was pinned behind his back. Adrenaline shot through his system as he realised that he had a knife to his throat – probably the one he had used earlier. "I'm not dying here!" a shrill voice exclaimed, pressing the knife harder into John's neck. Obviously, the uninjured had awoken from his stupefied state and was now planning to fight his way out. "I won't let you kill me!"

Moriarty's expression altered completely to surprise and shock. "Whatever do you mean? You're not going to die. No, not you. You weren't the one who botched up the mission, were you? And I'm sure it was your idea to come warn me. Why would I kill you?"

The man's hold slackened ever so slightly, and John swallowed as his eyes remained locked on Moriarty. "Th-that's right. It was my idea to tell you."

"Besides, I need a new driver now," Moriarty pointed out, smiling softly as he stepped towards them. "You've proven yourself loyal to me. I would be grateful if you were my new driver."

"O-of course, sir," he replied, relaxing even more. "I would be honoured."

Suddenly, John heard a silenced gunshot ring out, and the hand pressed at his neck went slack. The knife clattered to the ground before the body slumped down as well. Turning, John dropped to his knees and instinctively went to check the man's pulse only to see that the shot had been to the man's head. He glanced back to find Moran in the doorway, untwisting his silencer from his pistol. "Are we even now, Watson?"

"Hardly," John bit back. "When you get shot while protecting me, we'll talk." Moran smiled as he heard this, clearly amused. Suddenly, Moriarty stepped towards him and reached out. John glared at him. "Don't touch me!"

Moriarty frowned as he heard the order. "Moran, clean this up and wait for me downstairs."

"Of course, sir."

"John, follow me," Moriarty stated. He began to walk away, and John defiantly remained where he was. "Do not force me to retaliate. I will have Moran drag you if need be." Setting his jaw, John turned on his heels and followed Moriarty into the bedroom and waited for the explanation he was bound to receive. As soon as the door closed behind them, Moriarty's posture changed completely, his shoulders dropping and his weight shifting onto just his left foot. It was reminiscent of James. "I don't expect for you to understand, but this was necessary."

"Why? Because they knew what you looked like?" John countered, staring at Moriarty incredulously.

"Because they risked your life!" Moriarty screamed in response, his eyes wide and brows furrowed together. "Honestly, how can you be so bloody blind to danger when you were a soldier?"

"They posed no threat to me except when you forced their hands!" John retorted.

"They didn't check to see if they were being followed," Moriarty responded angrily. "They were so caught up in the fact that they fucked up that they didn't think to check to make sure no one was behind them. By coming here, they were leading whoever was tailing them directly to you."

John responded, "Assuming there was someone following them. And how can you be sure that they didn't check?"

"Because they were idiots, that's why," Moriarty snapped back. John frowned as he heard this, not necessarily able to argue that point. Even so, that didn't mean that they deserved to be killed. He had worked with plenty of idiots while in the army, but they were loyal idiots, and that's what mattered in the end. "And because when I pulled up, I noticed the people who had been tailing them snooping around. I'm not idiot, John. I know what a tail looks like."

Shaking his head, John said, "So you're putting their spilt blood on my hands? No. I won't have it. You can keep that guilt on your own conscience. Don't try to put it on me."

"I just want you to understand why they had to die. Besides the fact that they botched up a simple mugging, they revealed your location to a known enemy, which means that they lack the common sense to work for me. They were also known to the enemy and had seen my face. If the enemy got their hands on them, there is a strong probability that they would have given me up. After all, they aren't trained in counter-torture techniques like some," he explained. "And let's not forget that one of them had a knife to your throat. He could have tried to escape first. We were both too wrapped up in our argument to have been in a position to stop him. Of course, it would have been futile in the end, but it was still an option. Instead, he grabbed a knife and held it to your throat, fully prepared to kill you if he had to."

Shaking his head, John said, "But killing them?"

"What would you have me do, John? I'm not like Sherlock. I don't watch things happen and then react. I make things happen. I act before a reaction is necessary. Hell, do you even know their names?"

Taken aback, John paused a moment as he thought back. Neither of them had introduced themselves, and they had mentioned the driver's name in passing, but John couldn't recall it anymore. Reluctantly, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "I can't do this right now," he finally confessed. Part of him felt like Moriarty had a point with everything he was saying, but he just couldn't accept it when everything was still so fresh. "This is too much. I just watched a man die and know that two others lost their lives not too far from this very flat. If you think I'm just going to tell you that what you did was alright and revert to how we were before, you're wrong. You have to let me process this."

"Very well. Process it as you pack."

"Pack?" John echoed, his eyes widening.

Baffled, Moriarty replied, "Yes, pack. You think you're going to stay here with the front door busted in? Leaves my countermeasure of having an alarm rather useless, don't you think? I'm moving you to another flat."

"I don't want to go to another flat," John countered, noting that he was being childish, all things considered. But he didn't want to move again. This flat had become somewhat of a home for him. He felt comfortable in this place now, and he didn't want to have to reacquaint himself to a new living environment. "Post Moran at the door if you have to in order to feel better."

"My sniper doesn't have the time to babysit you."

John responded sharply, "Then find someone who does, because I happen to like it here, okay?" He blinked in surprise as soon as the words passed his lips, and he shifted somewhat awkwardly. "Look, I know I'm in no position to make demands, but I'm sure you can get a door replaced in no time. Probably while I'm sleeping, too. And it's not like I'm about to renege on my promise now and try to escape. Not after all this time."

Moriarty's jaw remained set for a long moment, and neither of them said a word. Eventually, he exhaled loudly and shook his head. "I'll have the door fixed by the end of the day. Until then, you will remain inside this room. I'll give Sebastian the orders to subdue you by any means necessary should you leave it without permission. Am I understood?"

"Completely," John replied, willing to negotiate at this point. He was lucky enough to have made it through this without getting maimed in some way, shape, or form. He wasn't about to push his luck.

Giving him a terse nod, Moriarty started towards the bedroom door before turning around to look at him again. "And might I add, if you ever undermine me in front of my employees like that again, you will not be walking away unscathed. I will not have you challenging my authority in these manners, especially since you do not understand the gravity of the situation. Believe it or not, John, I do not enjoy using excessive force." He looked like he was about to add a final point to that statement only to stop himself. Pressing his lips together, he stared John directly in the eyes. "And realise just how lucky you are that you were not the victim of my retaliation as well. Remember your place, John. You're my captive, not my boyfriend."

Those words stung as John watched Moriarty leave the room. Blinking, he stepped back and sat down on the bed behind him. He was mystified. That had actually hurt, of all things. And it had hurt because it was true. John meant nothing to James Moriarty – just a good fuck whenever needed. But why did that bother him? Wasn't it supposed to be the same for him? It was supposed to be an unattached relationship that ended cleanly once the month was over. Of course, who was he kidding? He had known he would get attached once they started being intimate. It should hardly be a surprise, after all. Despite his "trust issues," John was really searching for someone – besides Sherlock – that he could openly share his life with. What had he expected with Moriarty, though? That Moriarty would see something special in him and become emotionally invested? That Moriarty would never want to let him go? That Moriarty would actually fall in love with him? It was all incredibly laughable, now that John was seriously thinking about it, and yet that didn't help the sting he felt.

And then horror rushed through his veins. Did he actually want James Moriarty to keep him? Because that would be the only way for the two of them to remain together. He would have to remain locked up in some flat somewhere, waiting for James to come around. Then he really would be like a pet, and John hated the notion altogether. He wanted to be on equal footing with James, not underneath him. So he decided against that. He wanted James to keep their relationship alive no matter where John happened to live, but he didn't want to be forced to remain in a flat 24/7. Because in the end, he needed to get out and interact with other people as well. He needed to see his old friends again and hear Mrs Hudson go on and on about society nowadays. There was just a part of him that wanted to integrate James Moriarty into his life, no matter how impossible that seemed to be.

Was he in love then? In love with James Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal? The man who had just taken the lives of three men who had been trying to help him? The man who had strapped a bomb to his chest? The thought had crossed his mind before only to be dismissed immediately. After all, John knew he would become attached – as he always became attached to people even if it started out only as booty calls – but attachment was something very different than love. Romantic love. Attachment was like coming over to check on Sarah whenever she got sick. Attachment was taking someone out to dinner in order to cheer them up. Attachment was simple and clean. Love, on the other hand, was finicky and messy. Love wasn't so easy to control or get rid of. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. It wasn't possible. He wouldn't accept that answer. He couldn't accept it. He was most definitely not in love with James Moriarty. No, this – this hurt – it was due to something else. Anything else. But not love. It could never be love.

With that, John rose to his feet and began to pace around the room. Even if it was love – and he wasn't confessing that it was just yet – what would it really matter? He doubted that Moriarty was capable of returning such emotions anyway. In the end, he would be sent back to 221B Baker Street, and life would go on as if he had never been away. As if James Moriarty had never happened. If he were in love – he still wasn't admitting that he was – John's heart would heal over time. It had before when it came to a number of his previous girlfriends whom he had thought he genuinely loved. What he felt for James Moriarty was, if anything, a simple infatuation brought on by a very peculiar situation. More like a crush than actual love. It was something that would go away eventually, given time and space. Something that wouldn't be so painful when the month came to an end. Something John wouldn't be overtly upset about or, God forbid, cry about. It was nothing more than a crush, he repeated to himself. That decision only comforted John a little as he reran those final words through his head… the sting of truth still stabbing his heart.

"Ah, bugger," John hissed, glaring at the door as if it had something to do with it all. "Bloody fucking Hell."

Because in that moment, John realised that he had fallen in love.