Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.

Warnings: Language, slight non-con, angst.

A/N: Much gratitude to Burning Phoenix, hjohn302, ShiverandShamy, InsideYourDreams24, zealousfreak27, Guest, magirl0413, Mzzmarie, KingHerod, mylia11, RedRibbonsGirl, damelia0evenshire, Nostalgic Beauty, waffleninja, A, youwannabekate, UKNOWWHO71, and TWDWSH for your reviews, you rock my world…

Again, pathetically slow update. This month was pretty horrendous, no me gusta. But have been greatly cheered by all the people who reviewed or favourited, you are much too kind.

Also! Excitement! The wonderful Swamp Sparrow made me my first ever piece of fan art! Search 'tre-chan' on deviantArt to check out wicked little Jim on the run from the mental hospital...

~III~

It wasn't that Lestrade was anxious.

Nope.

In fact, if anything, he was angry. Three weeks of incessantly pestering Lestrade for interesting cases, and then Sherlock goes AWOL on the weirdest case they'd had in months.

Two twins walk into separate police stations at the same time and confess to the murder of their mother. Both are completely adamant that they acted alone. The crime scene, of course, has their shared DNA all over it.

It was like a riddle. But where Sherlock might have seen inspiration, Lestrade was stumped. And so was the rest of the force. Lestrade even admitted that in one of his later texts to Sherlock, knowing how much the detective loved to play the hero to Scotland Yard's bumbling village bobby.

But nada. Zip.

It wasn't so unusual. If Sherlock was lost in some complex experiment, or haring off on some other lead of his own, he often forgot to reply.

But then Lestrade had texted John.

Can you tell your bloody flatmate to answer his phone? Got a case for him.

And John hadn't replied.

Now, that was unusual. John was polite to a fault when dealing with Lestrade, probably to compensate for Sherlock's total lack of common courtesy. He hadn't necessarily expected John to know where his flatmate was but…

John always replied.

Still, Lestrade wasn't anxious. Sure, since the whole Moriarty pool incident he'd been keeping a close eye on Sherlock. He still wasn't entirely sure who exactly Moriarty was – and God knows Sherlock hadn't deigned to tell him anything, he'd had to read about the whole confrontation on John's bloody blog – but he knew the guy was dangerous. And that Sherlock's shocking disregard for his own safety required at least one extra pair of eyes on him.

But he wasn't heading over to Baker Street because he actually thought anything had happened. God, no. If anything, he was heading over to give Sherlock a piece of his mind.

And if his heart was beating slightly faster than usual as he hurried along the street, it was only because he was irritated. No other reason.

~III~

Lestrade rang the doorbell and waited. Then he rang again. And again. No answer. Where was that nice Mrs Hudson?

Well, that's it then. They're out. May as well go home and try again tomorrow.

Decisively, Lestrade turned away from the door and took three steps into the street.

Then he spun round and walked back to the doorstep, fumbling in his pocket.

Sherlock wasn't the only one who could "borrow" things without asking. Lestrade had cut himself a spare set of keys to Baker Street long ago, with the vague idea they might come in handy at some point.

The hallway inside was dark but Lestrade could instantly hear the low hum of voices from upstairs.

So they were in.

But as he climbed the stairs, he realised there were too many voices. Perhaps they were entertaining?

Yeah, right.

Lestrade could just imagine Sherlock's face if John attempted to conduct an impromptu social gathering in his living room.

So what then?

Lestrade paused at the door.

Could be dangerous. Could be a hostage situation. I should call for backup.

But then, it could equally be perfectly innocuous. Lestrade winced at the thought of what Sherlock would say if he summoned half of Scotland Yard to break up a dinner party. The word 'imbecile' would most likely feature heavily.

Nothing for it, then.

Before Lestrade could lose his nerve, he slotted the key in the lock and turned the handle.

And found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Fantastic. Lestrade closed his eyes briefly, hoping his final thoughts wouldn't be what an idiot he was to put fear of Sherlock's withering glare over his own safety.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" An accented voice demanded.

Lestrade had barely opened his mouth to answer when another voice cut in.

"At ease, Tomas. He's only a policeman."

Another time and place, Lestrade might have bristled at the 'only'. As it was, he let out a deep breath of relief as the gunman lowered his weapon.

Then he finally got a good look at the flat.

There were people everywhere. Three men were tapping away on laptops in the corner, while a woman was busily marking up a large map spread out on the table. Another man crouched on the floor, dusting it with some kind of powder; while a very attractive woman stood next to him, texting furiously on her phone.

Then his eye flicked to the man who'd just spoken.

He was evidently tall, even seated as he was, and impeccably dressed. He had a file in one hand and a photograph in the other, and his eyes were boring into Lestrade's.

"Inspector Lestrade, I presume?" He said.

"I… how did you- never mind that, what the hell is going on here?"

Lestrade was pleased to hear his voice sounded fairly commanding, even after the fright he'd had, but the man didn't look even slightly intimidated.

"I assume you can take an educated guess, seeing as you no doubt let yourself in here with the intention of verifying the wellbeing of Sherlock and John." The man said, in the same infuriating calm tone as before.

But Lestrade didn't have time to be annoyed.

"Where are they?" He said.

"We don't know." The man said. "They've been taken."

Lestrade felt panic swirl in his stomach.

"Taken where?"

"If we knew that, it seems unlikely we'd be here, hmm?" the man replied.

"Is it… Moriarty?"

"Yes."

Lestrade leaned against the wall to right himself.

"Why would he take them? Why not just- just-"

"Kill them?" The man supplied. "We don't know that either. Moriarty has a certain fascination with Sherlock; we can tentatively assume that he took him for further study. But Dr. Watson…" The man paused, weighing his words.

"I have no data on why John would be of interest to him."

As Lestrade digested this, the man spoke again.

"Unless of course, Moriarty has already killed John and disposed of his body at an alternative location."

Lestrade inhaled sharply.

"Are you feeling alright, Inspector?" The man said. "Would you like a glass of water?"

"You can't just… you can't just say things like that…"

"I'm afraid we must consider all options," the man said, "no matter how… unpalatable."

"Unpalatable?" Lestrade snapped, feeling a welcome anger rising through the nausea. "That's my fucking friend you're talking about; my friend being murdered, and his body being dumped by some madman. Unpalatable doesn't even come close."

There was a short silence, in which several pairs of eyes turned to his.

"Quite," said the man finally. "I apologise. I simply meant that this is a situation for pragmatism, not sentiment. And," he added, "if it helps, I do not believe John is dead. I think it's likely that Sherlock would have found some way to secure his safety, even if that meant John being taken as well."

Lestrade tried to collect his thoughts.

"How did they get in? Was there not-" and suddenly fear clutched at his heart. "Mrs Hudson…"

"Is in Devon," the man said. "Visiting an old friend, she'll be away for the week. Most fortuitous timing."

Lestrade let out a sigh.

"As for how Moriarty gained entrance, it seems he managed to terminate both the guards on surveillance outside the flat." The man smiled grimly. "And picking locks is no obstacle to him."

Lestrade frowned at the man.

"Look, who- who are you exactly? How do you know all this about them? Why are you here?"

"We're what you might call… special ops." The man said. "We've been pursuing James Moriarty for quite some time."

"So this is what… a government thing? MI5? Interpol?"

The man smiled thinly.

"I'm afraid I don't really have time to fill you in on the details. But you may rest assured; we are doing everything we can."

The man made a slight gesture to the gunman by the door.

"Tomas, please show Inspector Lestrade out."

"Woah, wait a second!" Lestrade took a few paces towards the man. "I'm not going anywhere. I am a representative of the Metropolitan police, and this operation will have to be cleared by-"

"Please." The man held one long finger up. "You are wasting valuable time. You must accept that the best possible people are working on this case. I'm afraid Met involvement would be potentially fatal to an operation of this intricacy and delicacy."

"But I-" Lestrade started, and then stopped.

Maybe they're right.

As he looked around the room, it certainly appeared to be a tightly run investigation. And Moriarty seemed to an unprecedented threat. If, by interfering, he inadvertently got in the way of finding Sherlock and John…

Lestrade nodded, defeated.

"Well… let me know if there's anything I can do." He said quietly.

"Certainly," the man said politely, eyes already back on the papers in his hand.

Lestrade cast one last look around the room, and then turned for the door.

Maybe I should just go home. Perhaps tomorrow I could go to the Yard and dig up the files on Moriarty. If I find anything helpful, I could always come back…

As Lestrade reached the door, something caught his eye.

John's cane. Half hidden behind an umbrella stand, with a fine layer of dust coating the top. He was hit with a sudden unbidden image of the first time he'd properly met John, limping into the house in Lauriston Gardens, cane by his side. And how, every time he'd seen him since, he kept thinking it would be the last, because surely Sherlock would drive someone as seemingly sane as John up the wall before long.

It was only recently that he'd realised John was sticking around. And he'd been glad. Sherlock was the strangest bloke he'd ever known, and John was one of the most normal but somehow, it fit. They worked together.

And now they were gone.

Lestrade spun on his heel.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The man opened his mouth but Lestrade ploughed on.

"And before you tell me I can't stay, let me tell you that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are two of the most decent men I've ever known, and I'm not sitting at home when I could be helping to find them. And let me further tell you that if you don't agree to me staying, I will walk out of here and summon every officer in the whole bloody Metropolitan police force to get under your feet as much as they possibly can while I go out there and track this maniac down by myself.

Because it may not be personal to you, but it's sure as hell personal to me."

For the second time, the eyes of the whole room were upon him. The man suddenly stood up, giving Lestrade a full impression of just how tall he was. He fixed his piercing eyes on Lestrade, who willed himself to return the gaze.

There was a long silence.

"Very well, then." The man suddenly said, and Lestrade blinked.

"Right. Well. Yes. Good." Lestrade nodded his head. "So what can I do?"

The man gestured to the couch.

"Alfred is reviewing the surveillance footage from outside the flat; he could use an extra pair of eyes."

"Got it."

Lestrade went and sat next to him, and found himself silently presented with a laptop. As it powered on, he looked up and found the man's eyes still resting on him.

"It's not only personal for you, Inspector." The man said eventually. "Sherlock Holmes is my younger brother."

Oh.

~III~

John had made Sherlock lie down the instant they got back to the cell, and set about attending to him. He'd managed to clean off most of the remaining mousse, but Sherlock's chest and arms were still bleeding. His left hand was curled into his body, the fingers swelling and blackening.

Moriarty had thrown the silk shirt back in the cell with them, and John had tried to use it to stem the bleeding, but the material was too thin to be of use. He debated using a strip to bandage Sherlock's hand but he knew it was a poor substitute for the real thing.

The survival voice in his head was whispering to him but he didn't want to hear it.

Moriarty almost certainly has medical equipment. And you can get help for Sherlock… if you're willing to trade with him.

John supressed a shudder at the thought of what that trade might entail. No. No.

He couldn't.

He made a cursory attempt to bind up Sherlock's fingers, but his friend used his free hand to bat him away.

"Don't bother," he rasped.

"Do you- can I- is there anything else I can do?"

"No." Sherlock said.

This close, John could see all of Sherlock's ribs. If they ever got out of here, he was going to have a serious talk with him about nutrition.

Most days, Sherlock appeared to John like some kind of movie superhero. The way he carried himself, the way he shot around the place, the way these incredible, complicated ideas came rocketing out of his mouth. In certain lights - and when John might have had one too many to drink - he seemed almost mythical.

Lying on the floor of a freezing cell, shirtless and covered in blood, Sherlock suddenly looked impossibly fragile.

He was so thin. So pale.

John felt tears unexpectedly pricking at the back of his eyes and forced them away.

He had to concentrate.

Looking down at his friend, John felt an overwhelming protectiveness towards him. The sudden force of it vibrated through him, like some new drug coursing through his veins.

Sherlock needed help.

John got to his feet.

"Moriarty." He called out.

"John, what are you-" Sherlock lifted his head and instantly deduced everything. "Don't you dare. Don't you da-"

"Shh." John said, as Moriarty let himself into the room.

"Miss me, darling?" He said, grinning widely.

"I need bandages." John said in monotone. "And antiseptic and tape and-"

"And everything else to patch poor dear Sherlock up." Moriarty finished. "Say no more, pet. I think it can be arranged."

He smiled broadly.

"John, I don't need any of those things," Sherlock hissed from the floor. He tried to raise himself up, but was unable to get far.

Moriarty paid no attention.

"Another game of 'what's it worth to you' then? I did so hope we'd get to play again, it is a favourite of mine."

"Terms?" John said tersely, desperate not to prolong the agony.

"Hmm." Moriarty appeared to be deep in thought. Almost absent-mindedly, his hand came out to caress John's arm.

John willed himself not to shake it off.

Play nice. For Sherlock.

"Well, you are asking quite a lot. I feel I deserve something special in return…"

"John…" Sherlock said in a pleading tone, but John didn't dare look round, in case he broke.

"Got it!" Moriarty's eyes gleamed triumphantly. "I want… a kiss."

John swallowed hard, and nodded.

He took a tentative step forward, but Moriarty stopped him.

"But first… I want you to strip."

"Fuck off." Sherlock spat from behind them.

John's hands felt numb.

What was the point of resisting, when Moriarty could have him held down and stripped at any moment he chose anyway?

But it was the idea of Moriarty compelling John to do it himself; it was the fact that the man would get off on seeing John in front of him, forced to lose his dignity.

John felt sick, and afraid.

What the hell are you making such a fuss about? It's only taking off your damn clothes. How many times have you done this in front of dozens of random men in the army? It's just flesh.

But survival voice didn't help. It was no longer just flesh when Moriarty was watching.

Fine. Then look at it this way. Sherlock needs those supplies. Are you really too precious to help him get them?

No. Of course not.

John reached for the bottom of his t-shirt.

Moriarty actually whooped.

"Hope you don't mind, love." He addressed Sherlock. "You never actually managed to get Johnny to do this for you, did you?"

Sherlock's chest was rising and falling rapidly. His voice came out in a pained half-whisper.

"John. You don't have to do this."

But John knew he did. He pulled the t-shirt over his head, shivering as the cold air hit his bare flesh.

"Slower," Moriarty drawled.

John couldn't look at the man's face. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, then quickly kicked them off.

Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see Moriarty licking his lips.

He reached for his boxers with shaking fingers, and then stopped.

I can't. I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't.

He was on the point of losing it, then he thought of Sherlock. And slid his boxers off.

"Look at me, Johnny." Moriarty said. And when John didn't, he crossed the few paces between them and suddenly his hand was on John's bare chest.

Just resting there. John got the message.

Mine.

"Well, aren't you lovely?" Moriarty said softly.

John could feel the warmth of his breath on his face.

"I… cannot… wait… to have you, pet." Moriarty was gazing right into his eyes.

The numbness in John's hands was spreading through his whole body.

Then Moriarty withdrew.

"Get dressed." He said. "I'll get your things."

He turned and left.

John only stood for a second before he snapped back into action, quickly dressing. He did not turn to look at Sherlock, could not bear to acknowledge how Sherlock had witnessed his degradation.

Moriarty returned with everything John had asked for, alongside two bottles of water, and a new shirt for Sherlock. He laid them down on the floor.

"Now, about that kiss," He said.

John had almost forgotten. Mechanically he walked towards Moriarty, but was surprised to be stopped.

"Oh, Johnny! I'm flattered, really, but who said I wanted you to kiss me?"

John was confused for a second; then suddenly, horribly, he got it.

He turned to Sherlock, who nodded faintly at him.

Despite how it sickened and terrified him, John would have kissed Moriarty a hundred times rather than be forced to kiss Sherlock now, with him watching them.

It was the cruellest of jokes. All the time John had spent fantasising about kissing Sherlock, about meeting those soft lips, and running his hand through that tangle of curls; and now their first kiss was to be through coercion. John couldn't bear it.

Nonetheless, he knelt down beside his friend.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

"Why, pet? You can bet Sherlock's willing." Moriarty put in from above them.

Ignoring Moriarty, Sherlock gave John a half-smile.

"It's alright."

And John leaned in, shutting his eyes in a futile attempt to pretend that they were anywhere else but here. Back at the flat, in the couch, on Sherlock's bed, Christ, even at a crime scene.

His lips brushed against Sherlock's.

"A real kiss," Moriarty said warningly, and John knew what that meant.

He gently pushed his tongue against Sherlock's closed lips and was relieved to find they parted. Kissing was something Sherlock had never previously demonstrated any interest in through the duration of John's time with him, but he seemed to know how it worked.

In another life, the kiss would have been…

But it was not another life. John broke away, and looked up to face Moriarty.

"Very good, sweetheart."

Moriarty pouted slightly.

"You're never that tender with me."

Then he beamed down at John.

"Oh well. We've got plenty of time to change that."

And with that, he was gone.

John sat back on his heels, feeling impossibly old.

Then he pulled himself together, turning to the medical supplies.

"Okay. I'll just-"

"Wait," Sherlock whispered.

And he reached out and took John's hand.

"It was stupid. To do that for me." Sherlock gripped a little tighter. "But, thank you."

John squeezed back.

~III~

This chapter was totally meant to be all comfort, I don't know what happened! Hope you liked it anyway.