This is a great chapter, imho. John and Sherlock interaction, and you get to see Mycroft. For a little while lol. Please don't hate me! Sorry it took so long to get up, but, like I've been saying, classes are kicking my butt! But I'm trying to write whenever I can, so don't forget about this story even though it may take several days for an update! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to everyone who read it :) I hope you like this one, let me know!

John was sitting in Sherlock's chair and staring into his teacup. It was still filled to the brim-he wasn't in the mood to drink it. His stomach growled, but the thought of food made him nauseous.

Drugs. Lestrade was right. He's a bloody addict.

"Goddamn," John said as he leaned his head back onto the top of the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and ran his hand over his face. John had so many questions for his flat mate, but had managed to keep himself from asking them. Before being the angry friend, he was a compassionate doctor, and it was obvious that Sherlock was in no condition to have any type of intelligent conversation. What did he take? Crack or heroin, most likely. Did he plan on overdosing, or did it just happen? How long had it been since he'd last used? Had he ever gotten help? When did he start? Did he have a criminal record from it?

"What's your diagnosis, Doctor?"

John yelped in surprise and shot out of Sherlock's chair, hissing in pain as his tea spilt onto his stomach, lap, and trickle down his legs. "Christ!" He brushed at his wet pants frantically, but succeeded in nothing except getting his hands covered in the scalding liquid.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" Jim was saying, approaching John. "God, I'm so sorry; are you all right?"

"Fine," John muttered as he went into the kitchen and grabbed a towel, dabbing gingerly at his shirt. "I'm-I'm fine, it's not your fault."

John heard a door being opened, then heard it slam against the wall. "John!" He walked returned to the living room and saw Sherlock, hunched over and breathing heavily, standing in the bedroom doorframe, his eyes darting around the room, finally settling on the doctor. "John! Are you all right?"

John cocked his head. "Of course I'm all right."

"He just had a spill, that's all," Jim said, a warm smile on his face. He walked towards Sherlock and put both hands on the detective's hips and let his forehead rest against the other man's. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

Sherlock put his hand on Jim's shoulder and pushed him aside with as much force as he could allow without the action looking suspicious. He took another shaky step towards John. "You-You're really all right?"

What's the matter with him?

"Yes," John said with a slow nod. "Sherlock, I'm fine. It's like Jim said; I just spilled my tea." He rolled his eyes when he realized that his roommate wasn't even paying attention to him anymore; instead, his eyes were boring holes into Jim.

"Let me walk you out," he said, and John couldn't help but think there was an icy tone underlying his voice.

"No, no!" John insisted, stepping forward and putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, I'll walk him out, you go back-"

"Boys, boys, I can walk myself out!" Jim interrupted. He winked at Sherlock and nodded curtly at John. "Feel better, love. Doctor Watson, good day."

Jim left the room, and John frowned when Sherlock didn't immediately return to bed-instead, he limped over to the window and looked down at the street as Jim was walking away from their flat.

"Nice guy," John was saying, though he didn't know if Sherlock was listening or not. "Jim, I mean. He seemed to genuinely care about you."

"You seem surprised," Sherlock said bitterly as he turned around to face John. He crinkled his forehead. "Is that really so shocking to you, that someone might care about me?"

John's mouth slacked open before he could prevent it. "You're not serious. You can't possibly be serious. Just a few days ago, I was up the whole bloody night waiting for you. Then last night, all night, I put up with you puking, screaming, moaning, Christ, Sherlock, you don't think I care?"

Sherlock had returned his gaze to the window, and had one of his hands clutching the ledge to prop himself up. "I didn't mean-"

"No, of course you didn't. Go ahead then; tell me what you did mean."

Sherlock was silent for a beat. John was about to storm out of the room when the detective spoke, so softly that John had to struggle to hear the words.

"John…what was happening this morning? Before Jim interrupted?"

Shit. He wasn't as out of it as I thought he was.

John shrugged. "What do you mean? I was helping get you settled."

"John, don't-" Sherlock stopped and shook his head, frustrated. "Don't-Don't play that game. I know what you were doing. What I don't know is if you meant it."

John tried to look as confused and innocent as possible. "Sherlock, I don't know-"

"Stop it!" Sherlock snarled, slamming his fist against the window. "You know damn well what I'm talking about! You were going to kiss me. Why?"

Sherlock felt guilty for being so curt with John, but he needed to know, and he needed to know now. John looked positively distraught, but, to his credit, he never let his eyes stray from Sherlock's. His hands were clenched into fists, and his arms were hanging parallel to his frame.

John shook his head. "You want to know if I meant it. I don't know. I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"No, Sherlock, I don't!" John snapped. "You want me to be honest with you? Well, I honestly don't know what I was doing! It…It's just…" He sighed and brought a hand up to the back of his head and rubbed furiously at his neck. "Sherlock, I-Christ. You just looked so pitiful laying there! And when you held my hand, I just…" He paused mid-sentence and his eyes widened. He stepped closer to Sherlock and pointed an accusing finger at him. "Now, wait just one bloody minute. You started all of this! Not me, you! So if anyone has to explain themselves, it's you!"

Sherlock shook his head and took a hesitant, small step towards the doctor. When he realized that he could stand without getting dizzy, finally, he took another, larger, step. "I believe my intentions were quite clear, John. What I don't know is how you feel about it." He chuckled softly. "It's almost funny, really. Here I can tell a stranger's life story just by looking at their handwriting, or how they wear their hair, but John…when it comes to my feelings for you…I'm utterly clueless."

John licked his cracked lips and cleared his throat before choking out, "How-How long…how long have you-"

"From the first time I saw you," Sherlock said softly. "I…John…I don't, of course, expect you to return my affections. But, if you ever-"

"Shut up," John interrupted. The words were harsh, but, Sherlock was pleased to note, John's tone was gentle. If anything, his friend sounded amused. "Why me?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I have no idea."

"Yes you do. What is it about me that you like? Well, that you like…like that? Of all the people that you come into contact with-government officials, celebrities, royalty, serial killers, why would you pick me?"

A low chuckle escaped from Sherlock's throat. "I didn't pick you, John. Not exactly. I told you, I knew from the moment I saw you. You…You just…" He cleared his throat and looked at John with a renewed fervor. "You're everything I've ever wanted, or, everything I would think that I'd ever wanted. I've never loved, and I never thought I would. And then I met you. You're brave, practical, intelligent, moral, confident, loyal, attractive-" he raised his eyebrows and smirked-"Shall I go on?"

Sherlock's smirk turned into an outright grin when he saw that John had started to blush.

"I need some time to think about this," John was saying, speaking fast. "I think I'm gonna-"

No, Sherlock thought to himself, his heart immediately sinking. No, John, please! You were going along with it, please, don't change your mind now.

"John-"

John held up a hand, halting Sherlock's pleas. "Now, I'm not-I'm not saying no, Sherlock. I'm not saying anything right now. I just…I have to think about things."

/break\

I'm going to get abducted when I leave the apartment. Don't do anything; just follow behind. Keep your distance.

Jim sent the text massage just as he opened the front door of 221B. He turned to the right, towards his ride, when he heard the expected shuffling of feet behind him. He froze in his tracks, rigid, and braced for the impact. He heard a loud rush of air behind him, and then a sharp pain on the back of his head. As he was drifting off, he felt handcuffs being clasped around his wrists, and arms being wrapped around his body. He blacked out with a smile on his face.

When Jim awoke, he was sitting on a bench. He looked around for any indication of where he was, but the room wasn't familiar. It was a huge room, dark, except for the single light hanging almost directly above him. The bench he was sitting on was a piano bench; he craned his head around to see a beautiful black Kemble Grand piano. The floor was made of white marble, swirled with black, and he see shelves and shelves of books lining the walls. There was a metal chair sitting a few feet in front of Jim. The room was circular, but, beyond that, he couldn't make out anything else.

Jim's head was throbbing. He brought his left hand up to rub it, pleased to see that his handcuffs had been removed. When his hand came into contact with the back of his head, he grimaced-he could feel a crusty shell of dried blood that had accumulated there.

"I do hope you'll accept my apologies for having my men knock you out. You understand my reasoning, I'm sure."

A tall man, wearing a black suit and a sarcastic smile, stepped into the ring of light. Jim returned his grin, and it held just as much sarcasm.

"Apology accepted."

Mycroft Holmes sat in the metal chair and crossed his legs, then his arms. "I suppose you-"

Jim held up a finger. "Hold on. Before we began, may I play this?" He motioned at the piano behind him. "It's beautiful; I'm sure it sounds heavenly."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you play, do you?"

"For twenty-five years. Self-taught."

Mycroft shrugged. "Go on, then."

Jim turned around and let his fingers settle on the smooth, ivory keys. No one knew he was a musician-not even Sebastian. As he began to play, his lips curved up into a genuine smile; playing always had that effect on him. He had decided to treat the senior Holmes to one of his favorite compositions, All of Me, written by Jon Schmidt.

Oh, Sherlock. I wonder if you feel like this when you play your violin. Happy. Genuinely happy.

The sound was over almost as quickly as it had began, but it left a beautiful chord floating in the air of the dark room. Behind him, Jim heard Mycroft clear his throat.

"That was very nice," the man was saying. "I wonder if that's the root of your fascination for Sherlock Holmes…musical admiration, perhaps?"

Jim chuckled as he spun around to face Mycroft. "Would you believe me if I said you were right?"

The smile had left Mycroft's face, and he looked furious and disgusted. "Who are you?" he spat. "Since you first encountered Sherlock Holmes, I've been checking up on you, but I can't find anything. It's as if you don't exist."

Jim chuckled. "Well. That is a problem, isn't it, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's eyes widened for only a split-second before his face returned to its stony expression. "I see you have me at a disadvantage." He stood up and walked over to Jim, looking down at him with pure hatred shining in his eyes. "Who are you?"

Jim shook his head. "I didn't tell your brother. What chance do you think you have?"

"Yes, well, my brother doesn't have the whole of the British government standing behind him. Perhaps that will motivate you?"

Jim snorted. "Hardly. I've been eluding the British government for years. And the Chinese government, and the American government, hell, even Russia. You'll have to do better than that."

"You're his lover, aren't you?" Mycroft mused, ignoring what Jim was saying. "That's strange. Sherlock doesn't have lovers."

Jim, again, shook his head. "Stop talking. You're making yourself look stupider by the moment." He stood up and crossed his arms. "Now, Mr. Holmes, can I do anything else for you, or am I free to go?"

"Sit down," Mycroft said, his tone steady but firm. "I'm not letting you go until I get an answer. Who are you, and what do you want with Sherlock?"

Jim hissed in a tight breath of air and crinkled his eyebrows, almost sympathetically. "I would tell you, but, you know how it goes. I'd have to kill you." Jim stopped and shrugged. "But then again, I don't give a damn about that, do I?"

Jim stepped closer to Mycroft, not enough for the move to be threatening, but enough to show Mycroft who was in charge of the situation.

"My name is James Moriarty. I am solely responsible for ninety percent of the crime that happens in our fair city, and thousands of international. Your brother just happens to be the most fascinating man I've ever encountered, and I couldn't let the opportunity to become…involved…with him pass me up. He was seriously inconveniencing me before, but I've put a stop to that now." He took another step towards Mycroft. "Any other questions?"

Mycroft seemed stunned, no doubt he was surprised that Jim actually had told him about himself. Jim cleared his throat, and Mycroft flinched when he heard a loud clicking sound come from behind him.

"I just have one."

Jim nodded. "Shoot." He smirked and looked past Mycroft, to something behind him. "Not you, Vern." He again locked eyes with Mycroft. "What?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Will you make it quick?"

Smiling, Jim clasped his hands together, excitedly. "I think we can manage that, Mr. Holmes."

The gun erupted, and it was in the blink of an eye that Mycroft Holmes sank to the floor, with vacant eyes and a drooping mouth. Jim gave one abrupt snort of laughter before turning on his heels and leaving the elder Holmes brother bleeding onto the cold marble floor.

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