Chapter 11-Moran
John came to consciousness slowly, blinking blearily as he tried to move his head to get a better look at his surroundings. He felt a foot make contact with the back of his head for his efforts, so he remained still. Glancing around at what he could see without moving, he recognized that he was in some sort of tiled room that smelled of urine and disinfectant. A bathroom, he realized. A public restroom. He automatically recoiled from the floor as soon as he discovered this and was immediately rewarded with another kick to the back of his head. Behind him, whoever was holding him captive was tapping away at something. A phone, John thought vaguely. He wiggled his hands experimentally and found that they were tightly bound with rope. His feet were also tied together. He was not, however, gagged. This meant that they were either in some remote, abandoned location, or that his captor was rather cocky. He listened carefully and heard a definite hum of people and traffic. He opened his mouth to scream and was hauled up to his feet. He was so surprised by this turn of events that he just stared at his captor for a moment.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said with a faint, maniacal smile as he pressed a very sharp knife to John's throat. John eyed it carefully before he spoke: quickly, so that the other man wouldn't think he was about to yell out.
"What do you want with me?" he asked. The other man smiled.
"I want to make you and your detective friend pay for every life you've taken in the past three years."
"But mostly Moriarty," said John. "You two were pals, weren't you? Best mates out of all of his legions of men." Moran, for that's who it was, threw John to the ground.
"What are you implying?" he hissed, placing his boot on John's neck.
"Nothing!" John said quickly. "Absolutely nothing. I was implying nothing. Nothing," he added for emphasis. The man's rage appeared to recede slightly and he pulled John back onto his feet.
"So how exactly are you going to make me pay for…all of that?" John asked. It seemed to him that if he could keep this man talking, he would have time to think of a plan. Or give Sherlock time to find him.
"Your friend," sneered Moran, "Will come looking for you. I've already sent him the information he needs to know to find you. He'll come for you, just as weak men always come for their companions, and I will kill him."
"He's not weak," said John. "He's a lot stronger than you, a lot braver. He understands the dangers of coming here, but he'll still come. How is that weak?" He knew he should stop but his next words slipped out before he could stop them. "You're the weak one, Moran. Hiding in a bathroom, taking hostages, always trying to tip the balance in your favor before you take someone on. That's weakness."
John didn't even see the blow coming. Moran hit him across the face with the hand that was clutching his knife. Not only did he break John's nose, he left a wide gash across his cheek with the wickedly sharp knife. But he didn't stop there. Abandoning the knife he punched John in the stomach repeatedly, and then threw him into the mirror for good measure. Bleeding and half-conscious, John sank down to the floor, the blood dripping from multiple wounds onto the shards of glass that surrounded him.
"I'm weak, am I?" he panted, wiping his blood spattered hands on his jeans. John felt himself slipping into unconsciousness and fought hard to stay awake. As a doctor, he knew he couldn't afford to pass out given the extreme likelihood that he had a concussion. Despite his best efforts, however, he felt himself begin to slip away.
Just before he blacked out, he thought "I never had to deal with this kind of thing when Sherlock wasn't around." He smiled slightly as he let the darkness consume him.
