Chapter 1
To Live is to Suffer
Part One
Five months after Sherlock died, John discovered Moriarty lived.
The Cardiff police didn't believe him when he tried to explain who Moriarty was and tried to prove his responsibility behind the recent bombing they were investigating. Everyone believed the stupid reporters about how the criminal mastermind was fake. After all, who could be involved in that much crime and never get caught? Bloody idiots. He discovered the missing man from the blown to hell flat still owned several hotels and he tracked down the bastard himself. His mission he was working with Anthea was completely forgotten for the time being. The case of potential police corruption that had gone nowhere, already left behind a week before that. Moriarty had taken Sherlock from him and it was something that could never be forgotten.
He found James Moriarty in a high-end hotel room, third floor, torturing a stranger tied to a chair. Well, Moriarty wasn't the one doing the actual torture, undoubtedly for the sake of his "not getting his own hands dirty" mantra with his job as consulting criminal. A second man, probably another one of his random thugs, was currently occupied shredding the poor victim's chest to ribbons, slowly. John watched this for a total of five seconds before making his move.
He acquired a key to the room from the front desk area in order to quietly slip inside and get the drop on the king of crime. Moriarty had his back to the door as John entered, busy snarling something liable to be horrendous into his captive's ear. The man in the chair was terrified. He'd obviously been badly injured and even though the thug's hand now stayed from physical attack, he continued to scream behind the gag fixed around the lower half of his head. Pain and distress were written across his face.
John took this all in rapidly, swallowed down the urge to gag at the mess that was the hostage's chest and stomach. He aimed his gun level to Moriarty's skull. He was going to take him out immediately, shoot him dead before a single word could be uttered from that venomous mouth. But when he hesitated, for that very small moment, he knew it was not going to be as easy as he'd hoped. Arrive, shoot Moriarty dead, leave. That had been his mantra since the day he discovered Moriarty lived. Never had he killed anyone in cold blood. Apparently not even someone as dark and twisted as James Moriarty was enough for him to kill. He was going to have to work his way up to it and get the other man to piss him off enough to do the deed. It would work or he was going to be as dead as his target deserved to be.
"Moriarty," he uttered, eyes steeling, body forming into a rigid military stance as he kept the handgun trained on his target with the right hand.
The bastard had the decency to look genuinely surprised, eyes widening ridiculously large as he turned toward the doorway and to John. When the surprise shifted eerily into a pleased expression, he had to consciously keep his face stony and not confused. He forced his eyes to stare directly into the other man's cold, dark ones.
"You don't get to live," he found himself saying to the man in the annoyingly expensive and handsome suit. "You don't get to live when..when he's dead."
Crap. He choked on the delivery a bit. Saying his name though, it remained difficult even now. His life as he knew it ended when Sherlock took that jump. He was willing to risk it all for the opportunity to avenge his best friend. Moriarty's expression darkened.
"Oh? And are you going to be the one to end me? Sherlock would be so disappointed if-"
"Don't you say his name! You don't get to do that either!"
The thug made a move, flipping the knife up to throw it at him. So John shot him in the head. He was dead before hitting the ground and he already had the gun back on Moriarty in the next moment, to find the man positively bursting with glee.
"Oh! The soldier can kill. I can play that game too, Johnny."
A subtle nod to the wall by the door and John realized his mistake. He hadn't looked around at his surroundings when he entered. His eyes had been for the man he'd come to kill alone. He tried to remedy his mistake by switching his aim behind and to the right, but felt the cold metal of a gun press against the back of his head before he could move much. This had gone wrong, fast. His missing the fourth man in the room was a big mistake indeed; a fatal one.
His jaw clenched and his lips thinned, but he didn't lower his weapon. He calculated his odds of eliminating Moriarty before he was eliminated. They weren't good. His enemy seemed to be reading his mind.
"Actions have consequences. You killed one of my men; I kill an ordinary citizen."
Moriarty leaned down and slit the tortured man's throat, squatting lower to watch as he gurgled and choked on his own blood. When the man was quite dead, he stood back up and straightened out his suit. Turning to face John, he looked pointedly at the gun in his hand and the knife in his own.
"Hm... Looks like you won this round."
He dropped the blood-coated knife onto the carpet. John continued to stare at him silently, unsure of what his next move should be. A suicidal shot at Moriarty? The man wasn't finished speaking.
"Unfortunately for you, John, Sebastian wins the second."
He risked a glance over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the man with the gun to his skull. Dark hair and dark eyes, tall and broad-shouldered. John was no Sherlock, but he could spot the military stance in which the larger man held himself as he kept the gun steady. Sebastian turned out to not be such a nice man. He poked the back of John's head and when John did nothing, he bashed the gun against the side of his head.
He grunted, stumbling forward a bit. After regaining his balance, he let out a curse.
"English. Forming words. Try it next time you want something done," he muttered, dropping his handgun to the floor after applying the safety.
He thought he'd been ready to die. Without Sherlock, life was bitter, awful, and agonizing at times. In a moment of weakness he decided he didn't want to die. It couldn't have come at a worse time, because surely Moriarty was going to kill him. The only thing he had to wonder was whether he would be killed quick or slow.
Moriarty was peering down at the dead man in the chair with disgust, as though the man was somehow offending him simply by being deceased. He took this as an opportunity to seal his lips and become silent. Perhaps his chances of a quick death would improve if he made himself as dull as the terrible man thought he was.
The criminal mastermind returned his attention to John. He tilted his head to the side and peered curiously at him. John ignored his stare and looked past him to the window beyond. Moriarty wasn't having any of that.
"You can talk, Johnny boy."
The response came immediate. "I have nothing to say to you."
"We both know that's not true. Go on, don't be a bore."
The last part sounded like a threat. Good. It meant he was on the right track. A bore would make this undesirable situation end faster. He may have failed at killing Moriarty, but he would die readily enough over being stuck listening to the man he hated, the man responsible for Sherlock's suicide.
"Just get on with it."
"With what? Oh, you mean killing you?"
Another motion and John was pushed to his knees, the gun pressing hard into the flesh of his neck. He shut his eyes and waited for it. Nothing happened. The sound of footsteps walking up to his position prompted him to open his eyes when he grew anxious.
"It would be so easy for me."
The snap of fingers caused him to jump and his cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment.
"Like that, I could snuff out your existence."
"And?" John gritted out through clenched teeth.
"And that's rather the point. I can kill you at any moment. But this is what I'll do instead. If you don't obey every one of my commands, like the good little dog you are, I will kill some poor, ordinary person walking about on the street. Do you understand?"
"Just what the hell do you want from me?"
"Stand."
John was acutely aware he'd been ignored and given a command. He thought about throwing himself at his enemy, considered attempting to throw the gun at his neck off and pummeling Moriarty into a bloody mess. The gun was removed and the man behind took a few steps out of his range. That possibility had come and gone. He stood.
"You're soooo good. I can't stand it. How can you be like that all-the-time?"
He frowned at Moriarty.
"It sounds exhausting," Moriarty expressed, nose shriveling up in distaste at the idea of a person truly good.
"Yeah, sure, I'm a nice guy. But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you in the face. Fancy giving me my gun?"
"You had your gun, your chance, and you didn't pull the trigger. Let's not pretend you would either. I know you better than that."
"You don't know me at all," he practically growled.
It seemed to please the other. "Course I do. You're..sorry..were Sherlock's pet. He must have kept you around for a reason. I wonder..."
"Don't. You'll only hurt yourself."
He said it threatening. He wanted the man to know he could lash out at any moment if provoked enough. Moriarty was wagging his finger at him, scolding.
"That's enough talking."
John started to open his mouth and a finger placed against his lips in a hushing gesture.
"Remember those average people, just waiting to get sniped. Moran is very talented."
Automatically, he stored that knowledge for later. Sebastian Moran, obvious former military, and a sniper to boot. He took a step back to remove the finger from his face and was rewarded for his action by a hand fisting in his hair, tugging him closer. With a grimace, he let Moriarty do it, and apprehensively let the man grip his chin in his other hand.
"I am so pleased you were able to find me, Johnny. Now we'll get to spend all kinds of time together. I'm going to find out what makes you so special. I'm going to make you regret daring to think you would succeed at killing me."
That sounded like a promise. He swallowed down a knot of fear threatening to rise out of his throat. A couple years ago, the criminal had him in his clutches for a few hours and it had been hell. He knew the torments a man like Moriarty could conjure and he was afraid. There, he admitted it. Too bad it did absolutely nothing for him.
"Hm... What should we name him, Sebastian? 'The Pet' seems far too obvious. How about 'The Mutt'? No..? I'll figure it out. I want it to be good, fitting, like Sherlock's."
John yanked his head away from Moriarty, eyes wide as the other went on, utterly calm and matter-of-fact as he spoke.
"And the name still fits him, doesn't it?"
Don't. He'd better not call Sherlock that. It was just so stupid when the man was dead.
"The Virgin."
His vision blurred, his brain went fuzzy, and he punched the man full on in the face. The satisfaction that came from connecting with Moriarty's face and watching him stumble a small distance was short-lived. Moran was on him in a second, taking him to the floor and kicking him over and over. He switched to punching him in the face until it was a bloody mess. When he couldn't do more than twitch or groan, the brutal beating ceased. It was fortunate because his body was numbing from the sheer pain shooting through every part of him, and as a doctor, he knew that wasn't good. Vaguely, he was aware he was lifted up. When his back hit something soft and cushy, he knew he'd been tossed on a bed. That was about the time he blacked out.
/
John shook his head from side to side as he exited 221B. He was frustrated and annoyed, and persistently trying to tell himself he wasn't mad. Sherlock thought he was such an idiot but he wasn't. He knew his flatmate was keeping something from him and knew the man probably thought his tiny little brain couldn't possibly process such knowledge. So now he would be turning his thoughts to Sarah. Sweet and wonderful Sarah, who deserved to see her boyfriend more often than she ever did. If Sherlock didn't want to share his thoughts on this mysterious Moriarty fellow nor discuss the fact that the man was clearly having fun playing with the consulting detective, then John would just go on with his day as usual. Oh boy, there he went again, mind mulling over Sherlock Holmes.
Flowers! Yes, he would buy Sarah some flowers. There was a flower shop a block from his current position. He would try to make it up to Sarah tonight. He had to with the way their first date had gone and how inconsistent he was with his attendance as her employee at the hospital. Just before the bouquet shop, he frowned and paused in the entryway, glancing over his shoulder at the street behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some traffic, a few pedestrians, nothing more. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling there were eyes on him. Great, this bomber case was making him paranoid.
Stepping inside the shop, he mulled over the card section for a moment, deciding against it. A card was too risky. It would be either the right one or the completely wrong one. He and Sarah were not in a position to get any more unstable at the moment. His eyes swept over the rows of flowers set out for selection. Which ones to choose...
"Oh, hi, um..John, was it?"
He startled at the sudden interruption to his thought-process and the immense closeness of the speaker. A dark-haired man, slightly taller than himself, stood immediately to his right, leaning toward him with his head cocked to the side in a curious manner. John stepped away from the guy to put a comfortable distance between them and to get a better look at him. He was familiar, he'd definitely seen him before. Dark hair slicked perfectly back, clean-shaven, wearing an impeccable suit that had to cost a pretty penny. It was obvious he was a high-maintenance fellow who took great care to look good.
Pretty quickly he placed him, but he was incredibly surprised as he did. The man before him now looked a lot different from the man he met previously. The gay guy from the morgue. Jim from IT. Tonight he was clearly dressed to impress and had some special plans. For a moment he wondered, but then he remembered Sarah and how he should really find flowers and get a move on to her place.
"Uh, yeah, that's right. And you're Jim... Molly's Jim."
"Ahh..well, was Molly's Jim. She broke up with me shortly after meeting you and Sherlock Holmes in the lab. Something about us being very different people."
John winced. It wasn't entirely an unpredictable outcome after Sherlock openly called out Jim as being gay in front of the new couple. He briefly scanned his eyes over Jim's attire.
"So if you're broken up, might I ask what the occasion is for getting all dressed up?"
The other man smiled, and John couldn't help noticing the smile didn't reach his eyes. Maybe his prodding wasn't appreciated because Jim was obviously trying to play polite. Whoops... Now to change the subject and extract himself from this situation.
"Ah, sorry, never mind. It's really not my business."
He returned to browsing the flower selection. He would go with a bouquet. Sarah deserved at least that much, no matter the cost. Roses. Red roses were romantic and beautiful and he hoped it would be enough to express how sorry he was for not being more available. Picking up the flowers, he made his way to the checkout, only to find he had not rid himself of Molly's..sorry, formerly Molly's Jim.
"I don't mind you asking. Tonight's an important night for me. Get to introduce myself to someone special."
"You've met someone else already? How wonderful for you, I suppose," John muttered the last bit absentmindedly while he made his purchase with the teller.
"Well, I've met him in a manner of speaking, but not officially. I've got another date beforehand. Have to be prepared and all that."
John turned toward Jim curiously, frowning at the same time when he felt the man's hand touch the arm he had resting on the counter. Something was..off. Back in the morgue's lab, Jim had been a bag of nerves, fawning over Sherlock while completely ignoring everyone else. This very moment, he was anything but awkward and had eyes solely for John. What? Was this guy seriously trying to flirt with him after confessing he already had two dates for tonight? It was a good thing Molly dumped him. Judging by how Jim said he was meeting a man, Sherlock had been correct in deducing he was gay. Apparently, he was quick to get other dates as well and didn't mind having more than one.
Pulling his arm out from under Jim's touch, he accepted his change and thanked the teller as he pocketed the currency. She asked him if he wanted the flowers wrapped but he turned her down, wishing to remove himself from Jim's company as quickly as possible. This guy was sending out bad news vibes to him.
"Well, I have to be off to my girlfriend's," he initiated outside the shop when he saw the admittedly exceptionally dressed man had trailed after him to the pavement. "It was..interesting running into you..I guess."
Jim surprised him by laughing, following him as he made his way down the pavement. "You could at least attempt to hide your contempt for me."
"What?" He turned to look at the other, frowning again. "I'm sorry?"
For a second, the dark brown eyes appeared almost black, marring the handsome face. But then in the next moment, they seemed normal brown again as he tilted his head at a slight angle to regard John with a small smile.
"You have a certain light in your eyes. It's..darling."
John wrinkled his face in distaste and repulsion for such words. He was usually better at pretending to be tolerant of others, polite and kind to everyone he met..that deserved it anyway. This Jim was not one of those people, he was rapidly learning. The man made his skin crawl and his flirting somehow seemed almost so intense it was threatening. How did a guy like that land two dates in a single night? He wasn't gay, but perhaps men were easier that way?
"I should be going. Goodbye, Jim."
He resumed walking a quicker pace than before, but Jim matched him pace for pace. What was with this guy? Why didn't he leave him be? Was it really necessary for him to flat-out tell the guy he wasn't gay and certainly wasn't interested in creepy Jim from IT?
"You're not as average as you pretend, are you?"
His pace faltered. He managed to keep going, glancing Jim's way. "Excuse me?"
"You know something is wrong, with me. But you just can't place what it is. You can't place why you're suspicious of me."
Discomfort spread through his body as the man reached and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, abruptly halting his walk.
"Stop, Dr. Watson."
"Er... Molly told you I was a doctor, did she?"
"No, John, she didn't."
An attempt to remove his arm from Jim's hold failed miserably. The man was much stronger than he appeared. A second attempt to pull away had him pulled by the arm into an alleyway, not far from where they'd been standing on the pavement. John managed to escape from the grasp as his back was pushed into the brick wall in the dark of the alley. What the hell was going on?
"I know all about you. I know all about Sherlock Holmes, too. I studied the pair of you, intently, before I set in motion the opportunity to meet the famous man himself. Rather rude, I must say. Then again, a superior man like him doesn't have time to placate the ignorant masses."
John frowned. The man was far too close to him for comfort, standing at ease with his hands in his pockets and a slight smirk on his face. He was nothing at all like the Jim from the lab in that moment and a thought began to creep in the back of his head. As though the other man was reading his mind, he removed his hands from his pockets and clapped once.
"Ah, I think he's got it."
He reached for his gun before realizing he left it at home. He was going to Sarah's and there was no conceivable need to bring a weapon along. How could he be so stupid? He had known the bomber was still out there and should have brought the gun as a precaution. But Sherlock was the one who enthralled the mystery man behind the bombings. Why go after him when he could go after Sherlock? Oh... In a manner, he was going after Sherlock.
"James Moriarty, pleased to meet you."
"Uh huh," John uttered, then pushed the now incredibly terrifying man away and ran for it, roses abandoned and forgotten.
To say it hurt when another man rammed bodily into him from the side would be an understatement. The man dressed in black was much bigger and broader than himself, and it felt like he'd been slammed into by a large boulder. Hitting the ground, he rolled with it in order to avoid injury, and lashed out at his attacker with a well-placed kick to the face. His assailant dropped hard, but his victory was momentary. There was another similarly built man coming toward him from behind the first one.
John swept back up to stand on both feet and a black car careened practically onto the pavement beside him. He found he was very much trapped when the driver's window rolled down and a gun pointed at him. The other man reached them and stooped to help his downed friend. He discovered the reason he wasn't attacked when a hand touched his back. Moriarty.
"Please, John, get in the car. We're going somewhere to meet Sherlock."
"Sherlock?"
"He set this up himself actually."
There was swearing going on in his head. Of course, what Sherlock had been hiding from him. He probably waited until he left the apartment before messaging James Moriarty a moment later. Five... Oh, shit. There had only been four...
"Um..yeah. I'm not going with you so you can strap a bomb on me and use me against Sherlock."
Moriarty was smiling again. Probably not a good thing.
"It's adorable you believe there will be any other end to tonight. I suppose that's the only way simple people like yourself can keep themselves going each day, hm? Belief they can change things out there in the big, bad world."
John ground down on his lower set of teeth and searched his surroundings, seeking a way to escape this predicament. He knew it was unlikely he would find one, but it was instinct. He wasn't the kind of man to just give in because someone told him to.
"I see the concept of getting blown to bits makes you a tad unsettled. Well, we have time to spend until midnight. Would it comfort you to know that the worst thing to happen to you tonight will not be getting strapped with explosives?"
He thought about what was said to him and that was his mistake. Moriarty was distracting him with words, never intending an answer. The slightly taller man leaned in, a knee very purposefully sliding between his legs, and planted his lips on John's. He gasped in shock, never expecting such an act from a clever and demented criminal mastermind, and Moriarty took full advantage. Tongue was everywhere, exploring the inside of his mouth, and it had to be nearly a full minute to shake out of his frozen mode, shoving the twisted criminal violently away in horror. The man was laughing hysterically.
"You and I are going to have such fun playing together, Johnny."
Wiping his mouth with his jacket sleeve in disgust, he shook his head. "Fuck. I'll take the explosives."
"Hm... Interesting wording. All in good time. We have until midnight after all."
He blanched at the flirtatious tone. "You made Jim from IT up. You were playing gay. What in God's name are you playing at now?"
Moriarty was positively grinning from ear to ear. "I'm playing..how to make Johnny boy suffer as much as possible..without Sherlock ever finding out just how much fun we had."
An almost imperceptible nod and the two men were grabbing hold of him, handcuffing his wrists behind his back and promptly shoving him into the backseat of the waiting car. When he nearly managed to throw himself out of the car, one of the black-clad men punched him in the stomach and he doubled over in a huff. Peering upward, he caught Moriarty rolling his eyes with impatience. The man shoved him farther into the car himself, getting in after.
John made to speak and was rewarded with a harsh grip over his mouth, fingers clamping onto his jaw. He watched as the other men climbed into the car to sit across from him and Moriarty. The car pulled away from the curb as soon as the door shut. His eyes moved to the man behind his now apparent kidnapping, who seemed to have been waiting for the acknowledgement.
"When I want you to open your mouth, you'll know it."
Moriarty shoved him against the seat, releasing his face. John didn't dare say a word. This guy was hard to read. He always appeared to be shifting from one emotion to the next, one thought to another. John settled on working at the cuffs. His eyes watched the road, attempting to keep track of where they were headed. Sherlock was the one who knew these roads like the back of his hand. After a few minutes he was already lost. Still, if he could get loose somehow and outrun his kidnappers, he'd be able to get somewhere there was a phone. He would be okay and then Sherlock would be okay.
He doubled over when the man clothed in black across from him leaned forward and punched him in the ribs. Before he could catch his breath, he was dragged out of the seat to the floor. A boot landed on the back of his neck and pushed, crushing his face into the carpeted floor. About five minutes like that and he was brought up again, returned to his original position beside Moriarty.
His face was jerked around so he was staring into the other man's face. "My men don't like it when they go through all the trouble of acquiring someone, only for said someone to do nothing but search for an avenue of escape."
John wanted to scream the obvious at him. That of course he would look for a way out. His captor made it clear he was going to do bad things and they involved Sherlock later in the night. Did he think he was going to sit and take it? But he didn't say anything. He hadn't forgotten the cruelty in Moriarty's gaze when he informed him he should not talk, lest he suffer the consequences, or something along those lines.
The man was smiling broadly. "Good pet. Oh look, we've arrived."
The two men brought him out of the car and into the building they were parked behind. The Sports Center. He knew where they were going. This was the place where young Carl Powers died. And he was right. He was forcefully walked into the locker room of the pool area and left alone. Well, not alone. One of the hired goons stood outside the door, the shadow of his head partially seen through the small window.
He took in his new surroundings in a hurry. Time was not on his side. He had to get out of here to warn Sherlock about what he thought he was doing setting up a meet with a mad man. The goon was waiting outside the exit, but alone he could take him. He'd shove the door into him to knock him off balance and run like hell. It might work and taking a chance was better than nothing. He stood cautiously, the running was going to be a little more of a nuisance than it should be with his wrists handcuffed behind him, but doable. Naturally, this was when Moriarty chose to make his reappearance through a second entrance he hadn't even known about.
Visibly deflating, tense shoulders dropped and restrained arms relaxed. Moriarty didn't come alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man was with him. He thought about fighting or fleeing anyway, and his captor read every thought right off him.
"Aw, don't be like that. I might think this is a one-sided affair if you continue to act so put-off by my presence."
"It is one-sided."
"Psh."
What? What the heck was that? This whole situation was beginning to get to him. Moriarty kept toying with him and it was frustrating. Was he going to have to endure hours of Mr. Insanity before Sherlock arrived? Oh, God, he didn't want Sherlock to come here. Would Moriarty kill him when he did? What did he want from the detective consultant aside from playing games with him? If this ended up about who was smarter than who, he was gonna kill someone.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I can't seem to get your full attention. Guess we'll have to do something to change that."
Thug number two descended upon him, initiating the sudden close proximity with a fist into his stomach. The blow caused him to drop to his knees and he muttered a curse, followed by a query as to why they had to keep hitting him there. Surprisingly, while he quite pathetically tried to jostle with his assailant, Moriarty answered him.
"As much damage as possible..without Sherlock noticing. I want him seeing you strapped with explosives, potentially about to meet your maker, and that is all I wish for him to see. Any other injuries would serve only as a..distraction. What happens in the hours before his arrival is between you and me, Pet."
"Face is off limits. How fantastic for me. Would mean so much more if your man would stop trying to- Augh..."
A steel-tipped boot to his shin, followed by yet another hit to his ribs, silenced his speech and movements temporarily. It provided sufficient time for thug number two to begin removal of his clothing. The restraints were momentarily removed, long enough to yank his jacket and shirt off of his body, before being replaced. They left him nude and he was pulled up and seated on the bench.
"Well, this is really not how I wanted to spend my evening. This settles it. Bad day all around."
Moriarty gave his man a nod and they were left alone. Hardly comforting given who Moriarty was. The utterly naked thing didn't exactly put him at ease either. There were reasons for a captive to be stripped. It could be a means of searching to ensure there were no hidden weapons, a method to embarrass or humiliate, to dehumanize, or there was always that other reason. The other reason was one he didn't even want to entertain. It couldn't happen to him. No way. No fucking way.
He felt dark eyes burning into his chin and he lowered his head to stare back. He wouldn't be cowed by this man. This apparent criminal genius looked younger than he was, too soft to have any military experience. He definitely had others do the majority of his dirty work. So..what did it mean when he was alone with him?
The man got down on one knee in front of where John sat. He continued to stare into John's eyes. It was unnerving.
"I want you to tell me everything about Sherlock Holmes. Everything there is to know as the inside man in his life of late."
"What? You mean because I live with him? You already know all about him. What could I possibly tell you that would be new?"
"You undersell yourself. You may be one of the many boring, normal people out there, but you've got something on them no one else does. You, Dr. Watson, have managed to enthrall the very man who has captured my interest. How do you do it? What is it that makes you so special?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh don't be dense!"
The words came out sharp, full of sudden anger. It had been unexpected but it was something he'd gathered about Moriarty. Unstable, insane, unpredictable. James Moriarty was not only a master of crime, but a master of his own changing emotions. The guy didn't seem to know what he wanted at times, yet so certain of what he was doing in the next moment.
John stared into the other man's eyes and swore he could see the color darken to a near black along with his blackening mood. Although his eyes seemed to be darkening, a shark-like grin was spreading across his face. He really, really didn't like being near this man and it had nothing to do with the nudity, handcuffs, or captivity. The man reeked of danger so intoxicating he was beginning to feel fear creep slowly to the forefront of his mind.
"You were a soldier. Tell me, what is the best method of extracting information from a hostage when time is short and you don't want to leave lasting damage, seeking to keep the subject alive and in good health?"
His carefully calculated, calm breathing caught in his throat. That thing he wasn't going to entertain was coming back into his thoughts again. No. Why would he do this? There was no reason. His eyes strayed away from Moriarty for a few seconds, but returned when he realized an actual answer was wanted.
"We didn't do sick shit like that. The British Armed Forces has honor. Something you obviously know nothing about."
If it was at all possible, the man's smile stretched wider. His eyes lit up with dark amusement. "So predictable. The soldier, using an insult to attempt to avoid an inevitable fate. Rather pathetic but admittedly enjoyable..for me."
Moriarty reached and ran a hand gently through his hair. When John tried to pull back, the soft touch turned harsh, fisting painfully into the blond strands. He was tugged forward until Moriarty's lips were about to touch John's own, a small smile still present as he began to speak.
"You will tell me what I want to know. You are dull and plain, Johnny boy. I am going to tear you to pieces without Sherlock ever knowing. So come on, Johnny. Focus on that life-long goal of staying alive if you must. Don't disappoint me... Now! Before giving me what I need, why don't we forego the talking for a bit, and put that mouth to another use."
He never said a word about Sherlock. He refused to give Moriarty that when the man had forcefully taken John's dignity and fight out of him by the time he was through. When midnight approached, thug number two along with number one came in as soon as Moriarty left. He'd been clothed plus encumbered with an uncomfortable amount of explosives.
Jim Moriarty returned once more to give him a final brush of lips against his cheek and ear, applying an earpiece to one ear while reminding John that he knew the rules. Fingers scraped lightly across his neck and then the well-dressed devil was gone. He would not be seen again until Sherlock's arrival.
John waited for that moment, for the first command to be uttered through the earpiece, he clenched and unclenched his now gloved hands, swallowing nervously while pushing away the most mind-numbing of his fears. It was extremely difficult after what Moriarty put him through, but he had to concentrate on what was to happen. He had to because of Sherlock. Because he needed to make sure if he couldn't make it out alive, Sherlock would.
The last Moriarty-centered thought that came to mind before he pushed his thoughts forward to the situation at hand, were worthy of wrecking him. The worst thing about James Moriarty? He raped sweetly. It was like making love in the most twisted sense. The future would come to show just about everything involving Jim Moriarty was twisted. It was too horrible that even Sherlock didn't see it in time to save himself. John would have suffered a hundred times at Moriarty's hands if it would have saved his best friend from that fall.
The time to change things had long passed, however, and Sherlock Holmes was long gone. All that remained was the attempt to be someone who could make a difference without Sherlock to lift him up and make it possible. Even that small future seemed dim, as his own vision dimmed and unconsciousness took him further into the hell he was living.