A/N Entertainingly enough, this actually feels more like Morlock than Johnlock, but, well, whichever.

Thanks to ThisDayWillPass, MapleleafCameo, and LittleMisChevious

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXV. Trouble Lurking

John is afraid of Moriarty.

And he's not an easy man to scare, either. He's been through a hell of a lot of pain and death, been shot at and threatened and held captive countless times more than most men his age. Loose, unfocused fear of 'the enemy' as a whole was overcome years ago, during his time as a soldier, back in Afghanistan. He'd been forced to face the concept of his own mortality at a much closer range than preferable, and he'd thought at that point that if he managed to survive his impending death, nothing would ever again feel like a real threat in comparison.

But James Moriarty does feel like a threat. A very burning, real, steadily approaching threat that's constantly on his mind, darkening his thoughts, making them bitter, poisoned. His very name is a repulsive mess, to be avoided at all times, shoved to the back of John's mind so that he can at least sleep at night.

He can't quite figure out why the psychopath as an individual is so terrifying. Perhaps it's his self-established changeability, the fact that he can flip from a seemingly innocent young man to a cold-blooded killer in the space of a millisecond, or otherwise the simple expanse of his wrongdoing, just how many people he's murdered, just how many lives he's torn apart. A single, dark, powerful creature at the center of a hurricane of blood and tears, the cruelest side of a mythological trickster, a weaver of chaos, all the threads and strands of his spectacularly ingenious plans braided into a single pink-and-white pill, a splash of toxic lemon spray paint, the subtle ripple of a nighttime swimming pool. As stated by Jeff Hope on the very first night of John and Sherlock's association, Moriarty is much more than a man. He's a force of nature, a wild energy, and energy can never be destroyed, only dispersed and converted. A terrifying prospect by any definition, and John often wonders how he can stay sane, knowing that such a maniac exists in the world—exists in London, with his oil-black eyes permanently fixated on the door of 221b Baker Street.

And yet he doesn't just cope with the ceaseless danger. He seeks it out, savors it, because it's what keeps him alive. Not only the smoldering force of Moriarty, but equally that which constantly clashes against it, keeping it at nothing more than a menacing simmer.

Sherlock holds Moriarty at bay, and it's a stunning thing to watch.

Because these men work with their minds, triple-crossing, triple-bluffing, incorporating a thousand subtleties into every move they make. Their actions are like those of gods, worlds' worth of brainpower condensed into the dark-haired heads of two silent, pale men, a hundred conflicts playing back and forth within the folds of the largest one, the great game, the war waged under cover of shadow and betrayal. It's so much more finely crafted than the mindless, bloody battle that John remembers all too vividly, less conspicuous but infinitely more remarkable for that reason. The chemistry spun out between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes is a work of art, and one which John Watson finds himself endlessly dazzled by.

John knows that he'll never be one of the game's central players. But he still believes he has a role in it, and one that he wouldn't give up for the world.