Chapter 10

The Boring Man

He roused from heavy sleep when he felt the car swerve to a halt, presumably outside the safehouse. A quick glance out the window told John he was accurate, the random house among the trees telling him they were no longer in London. Somewhere not far he could judge by the night still being very much night. Sherlock was noticing his return to consciousness. He responded by straightening into a proper seated position instead of staying where he'd been pulled against his friend's side.

Distance would make this easier. He didn't plan to stick around. He wasn't going to stay and hide like everyone wanted him to, especially when this was something James Moriarty was going along with and even helping. Why would the criminal help him, help Sherlock? Either something else was going on or he was enjoying himself far too much.

Anger at Sherlock was building, even as he stoically got out of the car and walked towards the house on his own damn feet, despite Sherlock's attempt to guide him along. Sherlock was being very un-Sherlock, guilt evident in his eyes. The sorry idiot was blaming himself for what John had chosen. Where'd the emotionally constipated Holmes disappear to all of a sudden? Four months the man had been back to his usual self, uncaring about the majority of things life had to offer, living for the high that puzzling cases gave him. Then John gets into a sticky situation and the detective consultant became all concerned and guilty over him. How inconvenient.

They'd barely followed Moran and Moriarty into the house when he decided it best to push the idea out of Sherlock's head before it could fester. His flatmate liked to think he was right and would want to act on it somehow. He was in enough danger unless he finished this now. He didn't need Sherlock to get himself involved, and in effect, into danger.

"Stop doing that."

Sherlock glanced down at him sharply. Damn those piercing blue eyes.

"This is not your fault."

The look he was given in return was not one of belief and understanding. If anything, he appeared guiltier.

"This is not your fault!"

He didn't mean to yell. Really, he hadn't meant to shout at the other. When it came to Sherlock though, his temper just seemed to rise so easily. Six months with the man and he wondered if he would ever be the same. He had him back, but he didn't have him back.

"Tell me..."

Great, this was not the beginning of a phrase that meant Sherlock was agreeing and understanding him.

"And be honest."

John was surprised. On the word "honest", Sherlock had practically hissed at him. He had a point there. John had been less than truthful to his friend since he'd returned from the dead. He waited apprehensively for the big question he knew was coming.

"Would you have gone into such danger in your endeavor to continue stopping crime, had I not left you the way I did? Don't lie."

So Sherlock knew plenty. He'd figured out John's desire to continue living a life at least similar to the one he'd gotten with the consulting detective. Sherlock had deduced John had gone to extreme measures to continue making himself useful as well as placing himself in the danger he sometimes craved. Worst of all, he knew the reason he put himself in the hands of the government in the search for justice and saving lives. He couldn't go back to the army, with his psychosomatic leg occasionally acting up, and instead took a different route. The route was one he would never have taken, if he hadn't seen his dearest friend leap off of a bloody roof right before his eyes.

There was only silence following the question and he knew it said everything Sherlock needed to hear. "As I thought."

He looked away, taking in their new accommodations. A variety of furnishings filled the single-story house's central room. All of the furnishing were a deep chestnut color or a crimson shade. There was a sofa, a few armchairs, several tables, a bookshelf filled with books, and heavy curtains blocking the windows. To him, it all felt like it was very much Moriarty style, knowing there most definitely was such a thing because he knew the man. A small standard kitchen branched off from the sitting room and there was a hall with four different doorways but beyond that he couldn't know what was behind those doors from his current position.

His body was telling him he was tired, exhausted even, but his mind was wired above and beyond having any desire for sleep. The human brain was a complex system and yet so simple. Any ordinary man would be how he was, exhausted and wishing for rest to come. But he also understood what he could not have and that was rest. Right now he had to get the job done before it was too late. The rest could come later. This was all on him. His handler wouldn't help him any more. Not unless he came up with concrete evidence his handler could give to his bosses to allow the shut down of the program and warrants to be issued appropriately.

John waved his hand toward one of the armchairs. "Have a seat then, since apparently we're going to be sitting this one out."

There was obvious anger in his voice, admittedly reverting back to a more immature side of himself. It was better than pretending to be calm and having Sherlock worry. He'd much rather have Sherlock be annoyed with him. All right, that was childish, but he wasn't in the mood to care at the moment.

Sherlock budged from the front door but it wasn't to go sit. He was following John as he walked over to the darkened hallway. In the meantime, Moriarty had flopped down on the sofa and was making himself comfortable, fluffing the pillow beneath his head. It was strangely normal to see on a most unusual man. That wasn't his concern though. Getting out was. He snapped at the man currently following to let him alone, it was just the loo, not a warzone.

It was actually Moriarty's chuckling that got Sherlock to retreat away from him. He didn't go over to the armchair, possibly because it was too close to the sofa where his enemy lay. He chose to return to standing blankly near the front door. John knew that mind was anything but blank and on standby, however, frantically churning and spinning a variety of thoughts and ideas throughout his neural pathways.

The bathroom door was the first one on the left. He let it slam shut behind him, releasing a small fraction of the anger he felt towards his current life situation through the action. There wasn't a lock on the door. He doubted it would be a problem. Realizing he actually did have to relieve himself, he did so, fidgeted with his assault vest for a moment, not quite used to feeling such fabric against his bare skin, and flushed. Switching on the sink, he proceeded over to the far side of the room. He unlocked the window and slid it open as quietly as possible. The whole process took a full thirty seconds to ensure he was unheard by the pair of geniuses in the other room. Then, silently as he could, he hopped out the window and onto the grass below it.

He turned away from the house to go and turned into the one man who'd managed to completely slip off his radar. Sebastian Moran was standing a couple of feet from the doorway, mouth slightly agape with a lit cigarette hanging loosely from between his lips. Obviously a man jumping out the bathroom window had not been expected. This man had a gift at slipping into the shadows and into the recesses of a person's mind. John hadn't even considered where the man was after entering the house and it had possibly cost him his escape back to the mission.

"Uh, hi. Err..just going for a stroll?" he tried, oh so pathetically.

Moran wasn't having any of it. He regained his composure, took a final drag on his cancer stick, and let it drop, stomping it out. A glance from the window to John and then he was moving toward him. He backed away but Moran was taking longer strides and then he was being picked up and swung over a broad shoulder. It was utterly insulting.

He heard a door opening and closing, and then Moran's low voice.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Once the words were out, John was promptly dropped onto the carpeted floor just inside the door. He growled angrily up at the reason for his return to this bizarre room where Sherlock and Moriarty stood and weren't in the middle of a battle of the mind, where he was being treated as the silly little man they believed him to be, and where his opinion apparently didn't mean a damn thing.

"You keeping me here solves nothing!"

"John."

He ignored Sherlock. He didn't want to see what he knew was there. A glint in his eyes that gave away his fascination with the mystery to be explored. He knew Sherlock had seen a puzzle to be figured out as soon as he'd discovered there were secrets being kept from him. It was just the way the man's head worked. It needed stimulation and when there was something to be solved, something to be uncovered, he was in it completely until satisfied.

"It isn't done. I have to find the woman in charge since I'm sure she's all over damage control with her partner in the project now being dead. There's no way I can reenter my cover but since they already know, I'll just get in quick and grab what I need."

"Get in-" Sherlock corrected his current line of speaking for another. "Your brilliant plan is a snatch and grab. This is your solution for stopping a currently government sanctioned project that is so classified, hardly anyone even knows it exists?"

John hated the way he was being spoken to, like an idiot, like he didn't realize what he was saying would be a little more difficult than it sounded. He had to try it though or all of his undercover work would be for nothing. Why couldn't Sherlock understand the urge to be out there doing something instead of sitting so idle? It was the very definition of his friend most of the time.

"So what, I should wait here for them to solidify and concentrate a manhunt to come looking for me? Stop acting like you have all the answers and I couldn't possibly have any."

"I don't have all the answers, not a one actually, and that is why you must stay put where I can be sure you're safe."

An admittance of lacking knowledge and of caring... Different. He forced his gaze to meet Sherlock's and saw that damned intensity in those eyes, this time solely focused on him. Or was it the mystery that was now him? Was it concern for his well-being or was it fascination at a puzzle to be worked out?

"You can't be sure I'll be safe, not ever. That's just how life works. I can't believe you're actually placing your trust in Moriarty of all people to keep me safe. Are you mental?"

If possible, Sherlock's eyes seemed to fade to a lighter color. At the very least, the eyes definitely looked colder than before.

"Don't be naive. I don't trust him. You said you wanted to come here. That's the only reason we're here. If you want to go, fine, but it will be in the company of Mycroft and his people. Anyone else, even Lestrade, would probably be foolish enough to let you..I don't know, slip out a bathroom window. We won't be making that mistake again, will we? No unsupervised visits to the toilet. You've lost that privilege."

"What? Now you're making rules? Hell no, I'm leaving and you won't stop me-ow."

He stared wide-eyed at the needle in his arm, plunger pushed all the way in so that the syringe was now entirely emptied. John couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe Moran had actually resorted to drugging him into compliance.

"You..carry sedative filled plungers around often?"

Moran gave a jerky shake of his head. "Only when dealing with irate doctors who won't listen to reason."

He managed a scoff, even as his head grew light, limbs growing heavy. "You're the ones who won't hear reason. I am extremely pissed. Someone had better catch me."

Arms snagged him out of the air when his legs began to sag, gravity doing its work against him. He stared up at Moran and spotted a second head coming into the quickly fading picture. Before he could see quite who it was, his vision went haywire and he allowed his drooping eyelids to close, accepting the invading darkness.

"How dull."

"Shut it, Jim."

"Why should I?" Moriarty countered.

"Because you're still a bastard."

The other man smirked for Sherlock, though his attention was on surveying Moran carrying a limp doctor into one of two bedrooms. They both knew if Moriarty decided to turn on them now, there wouldn't be time enough to act to stop them on his brother's behalf. As much as he didn't like to admit it, his brother had his uses since the government seemed to have some sort of dependence on him which gave him a useful position of power.

Moriarty followed his man down the corridor, glancing Sherlock's way. Every look of Moriarty's had some kind of meaning and this was no different. He followed grudgingly after the other man.

"I wonder, how much it would bother you if I were to figure this little puzzle of ours out. Does this go deeper? Or is Dr. Watson yet another ordinary, everyday man who was tricked into working for bad men?"

"You know it isn't as simple as that. John's not stupid."

The other raised his eyebrows at him. "Really? Hearing you talk, sure sounds like you find the man to be just that. Poor Johnny even thinks you believe he's an idiot, incapable of making his own decisions."

"Not true."

Moriarty's hands went into the pockets of his dress pants and he shrugged, head beginning to follow a sort of stretching pattern with his neck.

"Doesn't matter if it's true, only what he believes to be true."

"So what?" Sherlock began, entering the bedroom after Moriarty, who told Moran he could leave the room. "Since you can't seem to kill me, you're going to hurt John? Make him think mean heartless Sherlock couldn't care less about his friend?"

"I don't have to lift a finger." Moriarty drawled contentedly. "You're already doing a wonderful job convincing him of that all on your own. Now..if you'll excuse me..."

The man started humming to himself as he crawled onto the bed and began undressing the unconscious former army doctor. Sherlock's expression became one that could only be described as stricken. He was uncertain in these situations of former victim and assailant, enemy seemingly aiding an enemy. What should be allowed? What could be trusted?

Moriarty ceased his movements after removing the vest and observing how frigid the other man in the room had become. He rolled his eyes impatiently, and with clear annoyance tilted his head in Sherlock's direction.

"What?" His eyes scanned John's prone form on the bed, his current half-dressed appearance, and rolled the thought of the past between him and the man beneath him through his head. "Oh come now. It's no fun when they're unconscious."

The joke was in poor taste but so very much like Moriarty to say such a feelingless thing. He wasn't a human being. He made a mockery of what he thought the average human being to be like. Sherlock sometimes wondered about what made Moriarty tick, but when it came to protecting John, there was no middle ground. It would be John every time.

While he thought, Moriarty's searching gaze caught something. Sherlock frowned to peer more closely and see what the other man was seeing. His interested look was on the jagged scar, nearly three inches in length, located on John's left arm. A mark left behind when his friend had been held captive by the psychopath for almost an entire week. Moriarty appeared almost mesmerized by the mark. It didn't sit well with him.

Sherlock moved over to the bed and pushed Moriarty away, resuming the task of removing John's black soldier attire himself.

"Rape or not, I don't think he'll want you touching him."

Moriarty sighed and cracked his neck in an exaggerated fashion. "Ah well, suppose I'll go take my evil self and leave the pair of you alone."

"Moriarty."

The man paused in the doorway, waiting.

"Why do this? Why help us?"

"Because it intrigues me?"

Sherlock shook his head. No, he wasn't buying that. The other understood what the motion meant and a grin overtook his prior straight face.

"Who says I'm helping you?"

"What? Well, clearly you-"

"Surely you of all people know what the ordinary folk say about appearances."

Of course he did. They could be deceiving. He did it all the time to get the results he wanted but he didn't comprehend what that had to do with Moriarty giving him and John a place to hide out from the latest people who wanted them dead. Apparently the criminal consultant wasn't about to divulge his latest thoughts or planning, choosing to say his own thing.

"What really draws me in to this at the moment, is how such a boring man can draw so much interest to him." The man wiggled his eyebrows at him. "I can't wait to see what happens next."

That all familiar churning feeling in the pit of his stomach was back. Moriarty's ability to make him both curious and utterly disgusted at the same time was uncanny. He turned his back to the door and he could hear Moriarty's footsteps moving down the hall and away from them. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pulled the covers over John's mostly naked form, relieved to find there were no fresh wounds. It appeared the drug was extremely effective at speeding up the body's natural instinct to heal itself. His initial response was a desire to dissect this formula and examine it through a microscope. He glanced down at John and felt a different kind of feeling tugging at his brain.

Sherlock grabbed a chair and tugged it over to the bed before having a seat in it to continue watching over John until the man would wake again. Placing his fingertips together, he brought them just under his chin, thinking over the science of the drug in his mind. If he would not allow himself the pleasure of obtaining and studying the experimental drug his friend had been continuously dosed with, he would attempt to piece together how such a thing could come about in his own mind. This drug sounded miraculous, too good to be true for those who would wield it. There had to be something, a flaw, that would deem the drug unfit for continued distribution. He would figure it out and the drug would never be legally utilized by the greedy looking for a quick fix, whatever their current fix had settled on. This was what he could do.