Moriarty.

Just the mention of his name was enough to make John's stomach twist into uneasy knots. No good ever came of hearing that man's name. Last time John had acknowledged Moriarty's existence, it had ended with Sherlock dying.

Except he hadn't died. And neither, apparently, had Moriarty.

Two geniuses, too clever enough for their own good. Two faked deaths.

The encounter in the cab had shaken Sherlock, that much was obvious. The colour from his face had gone, and John had noticed a slight trembling in Sherlock's hands as he told Mycroft and John exactly what had occurred in the cab, with no detail left out. Sherlock had been directing his tale mainly at Mycroft, which made sense as he was the only one in the room who could do anything to Moriarty whilst at the same time remaining inside the boundaries set in place by the British laws. Sherlock wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what thought's were going through John's mind at that precise moment.

All he'd need was his gun, a chance meeting, and a bulls-eye shot to Moriarty's head.

John played over imaginary footage of himself shooting Moriarty in various different locations. Each time felt more satisfying than the last.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was not harsh. It was not a command to return from his thoughts to the present. It was not said with a force to demand he turn his attentions away from his fantasies. No. It was gentler, guiding. It provided a calm reminder to John that whilst it was very pleasant to lock himself away in his mind, it would be better if he focused on the here and now. It was this that bought John back to the hospital room.

He and Mycroft were sat on the uncomfortable chairs at either side of Sherlock's bed, although, since John had retreated into his morbid imagination, Mycroft had vacated his seat and was now pacing near the partially open window, speaking rapidly into his mobile phone as he did so. Sherlock himself had removed himself from under the sheets and was now sat cross-legged on the blue blankets that the hospital provided as a poor replacement for a duvet. Sherlock was fully towards John, and John subconsciously leaned forwards so Sherlock could speak to him directly. Sherlock also leaned forwards, although his actions seemed more deliberate. Their eyes locked and didn't break apart throughout the entirety of Sherlock's monologue.

"You've heard me say once before in a court of law that Moriarty isn't a man, he's a spider." Sherlock's voice was low and quiet, causing John to lean in further. Whether the volume and tone was for Mycroft's benefit as he continued the rapid-fire conversation he was involved in, or just so Sherlock could speak to John without anyone overhearing was unknown to John - although he assumed the latter. It was unlikely that Sherlock would do anything for Mycroft's benefit in front of John, despite all the help Mycroft had given them in the past. "It was an accurate description. He sits in the very center of a vast, extortionate, complex web. At the center, he controls every strand. Every pull ensures another death, another heist, torture, weapons trading, human trafficking. Name a crime and Moriarty's involved. He has access to the best resources available to a master criminal, drugs, weapons, people, threats, secrets, experts. I didn't understand, I couldn't comprehend until I left just how large this web is. What I managed to unpick I assume is only a small fraction of this web. From what I can gather from our encounter, he arranged my little 'accident'. I'm sure he didn't specifically intend to cause post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, but he did intend to put me out of the game for a little while. The amnesia was just an added twist to the game, creating a more challenging and more fun puzzle. He's been building something. I don't know what. But one I do know. The game is on, John."

"But, how did he do it? You saw him shoot himself in the head, right?"

"Yes. But I was too preoccupied with my own predicament to notice some things."

"And what was that?"

"The blood, John. Only a pool of blood around his head where he fell. Completely out of the ordinary for that particular wound. There should have been blood spatter and grey matter. I myself should have been covered, considering the proxemics at the time of the shot. Moriarty must have had access to something that could fake a gunshot wound to the head convincingly enough that I couldn't question it. Also, where was the body?"

"Moriarty's body?"

Sherlock shot John a withering look. "John, you of all people should know how much I detest repetition."

John flinched at the harsh words, but obviously not enough to warrant concern from Sherlock, who had now adopted his famous thinking pose, with hands steepled under his chin. Despite the situation, John felt sudden joy at watching the consulting detective as he was back in his element.

"Lestrade told me all about Anderson's, quite frankly, ridiculous theories as to how I survived the fall." He huffed out a small laugh. "Odd, I always thought that he and Donovan would be the first to pop the champagne corks at the news of my death."

"They're idiots, Sherlock, but they're not inhuman."

There were a few moments of silence as Sherlock considered John's words. Whether or not they made any impact upon Sherlock was clearly unnecessary to the conversation, as Sherlock continued to speak as if John had not commented at all.

"Despite his utter idiocy, Anderson raised a very valid point. The police never found a body, John. If they had, they would have called into question whether or not my death was part of a murder-suicide. But no such questions were ever raised. It's possible that he could have had assistants ready to remove his body after I jumped, but there would have been far more blood and brain matter. So, once we have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains-"

"Must be the truth. Which means that Moriarty's still alive!"

John watched, fascinated at the different emotions passing over Sherlock's face as he finished speaking. Wariness that Moriarty's web was larger than he'd first anticipated, anger at the fact that he had not realised this, excitement at the prospect of the game being back on as Moriarty's still out there, somewhere, pride and elation at John having reached the same conclusion as him, and fear. Fear of what?

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock broke eye contact, choosing instead to look at the space separating them. John leaned back to get a better, fuller view of his friend. Sherlock's neck, shoulder and torso were contorted with tension. He was closed in on himself. John could see the defence barriers go up. Any minute now Sherlock would return to his preferred aloof and closed down state. He would declare himself 'fine', assure John there was nothing to worry about, and assume John would accept this and move on, just as he had done at Baker Street before disappearing off to Bart's and hitching a ride in a taxi driven by Jim bloody Moriarty.

In synchronization with his thoughts, John watched as Sherlock seemed to pull himself together, straightening his posture and schooling his face into the familiar, cool mask of indifference.

"It's nothing of importance John."

"I call bullshit. Now, tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock swallowed, and he began to fiddle with the blanket he was sat on. John waited. He had all day, and - according to reliable sources including, Mrs Hudson, Mary and Lestrade - the patience of a saint. John folded his arms and just watched, waiting.

"He'd used you as a target before John, twice before. Both occurrences nearly ended in one or both of our deaths. I can't help but feel that Moriarty will once again reach out and use you as a target, John. Only this time, if he does, I don't think we'll be able to get away so easily."

Sherlock continued to fiddle with the blanket, like a small child would with a much loved blanket which they've carried around with them for years. John could imagine Sherlock, an unruly five-year-old, with such a blanket. 'Safety Blankets', his mum used to call them.

John leaned forwards again, reaching out his hand to lay it on Sherlock's wrist, forcing the detective to pay attention to him. It had the desired effect and Sherlock turned his face up to meet his gaze. Two sets of contrasting blue eyes met, and John gave Sherlock's arm a reassuring squeeze.

"Hey, we've got this, okay?"

He didn't wait for any reply or acknowledgement, choosing only to remove his hand, lean back and once again fold his arms across his chest. Behind Sherlock, John could see Mycroft end his call and make his way back to the seat. John cleared his throat.

"So, what's the plan of attack, then?"