Chapter 2

To Live is to Suffer

Part Two

The memory of his first encounter with James Moriarty faded into the recesses of his dizzied mind. He began to feel an insurmountable amount of pain and knew he was regaining consciousness. Something was touching him, no, someone. There was heat on top of him and a nagging sensation at the back of his skull screamed for him to become aware. He forced his eyes open and immediately clamped them shut when a fresh surge of pain roared through his head. It felt like his entire face had been smashed into a wall a few dozen times. Wait..that wasn't far off. He recalled a man named Sebastian Moran and his current predicament came flooding back. Overcoming the worst of the agony his body was in, his eyes snapped open.

Moriarty was very much naked and was the heat he felt on him. A glance down the length of his own body informed he was likewise undressed. Did he think this was what he and Sherlock did in the past? That this was why Sherlock "kept" him around? Surely he knew better. Which meant the criminal did this..why? To make him suffer, undoubtedly.

He checked out his environment. The dead man and the chair were gone, although a sizable bloodstain coated the white carpet. Moran was also missing but he didn't think he'd go far. Moriarty always had back-up and secondary plans for everything. There would be no escape. He could barely move as it was, every inch of his body in pain from the earlier beating. His attention went to the man on top when he spoke directly to him.

"Oh, good, you're awake. I thought I might have to get started without you."

He winced as Moriarty leaned an elbow into cracked ribs, full attention to the probably messed up face of his. Molestation while unaware sounded like a good idea. Why'd he have to wake up again?

"Sherlock and I don't do this, you know. So you can stop."

A frown creased his forehead. "This isn't about Sherlock. Obvious."

Rolled eyes like John was the dumbest person he ever met encouraged the former soldier to latch onto the wrist of the wandering hand on his chest. Moriarty looked put out his ministrations were halted, but didn't fight the hold, lifting his gaze to John's eyes for the first time. A lick of the lips gave away the man's impatience, yet he waited.

"Of all the things you are, I'd never have pegged you for a rapist. Stop. You don't need to do this out of misguided desire to hurt Sherlock. He can't hurt. Not anymore."

He really, really wanted this to work. Attempts to reach out to the perpetrator sometimes could prevent certain actions from being taken. At least, shows on the telly displayed such things going down successfully. Moriarty wasn't like anyone he'd ever seen on television or met, however, so he knew it was a long shot. A failed one at that, but the attempt was humored by the insane man.

"You are quite right, Dr. Watson. Rape was never one of my moves. You'd be my first, my only."

John didn't feel special about that. He felt a sudden urge to tear his eyes away from Moriarty's eyes, but he didn't. His therapist thought he got off on danger, experiencing the thrill of chasing down a threat or being in the presence of one. He wasn't feeling very excited right now. Curious, though, was something he could admit to in this moment. Uncovering why a master criminal did what he did would be a Sherlock move, and was his move presently.

"When first we met, I had you to take that moment away from Sherlock."

It blurted out like a reflex, sounding irritated and tired. "We were never a couple. I'm not gay."

Moriarty laughed softly. "You are so blind..and naive."

"More insults to my intelligence. Never had that before."

His captor seemed to like his snark and continued on as though John was encouraging. "I enjoyed having you all to myself, very much. After, there was no desire to have any other in such a way. There really is something special about you."

"Lovely," he uttered, tilting his head out of Moriarty's free hand which had been cupping the back of his head until then.

"Yes, you are."

A disturbed look passed over his face and it made Moriarty laugh again, louder this time. "I've always loved to hurt people. You, you're so good! Makes it all the more..pleasurable."

At the word "pleasurable", Moriarty buried his face into John's neck and bit down. He gasped and tried to squirm away but the wrist he didn't have hold of meant a hand was there to push down on his old shoulder wound. He quickly picked up that the harder he tried to get away, the more force would be exerted on his sensitive scar.

With an annoyed grunt, he forced himself to still and let the man continue to ravish his neck using teeth, tongue, and lips. Pulling back from the neck, Moriarty applied a quick kiss to his lips before letting one hand trail down his body to a place much lower.

"Do you want to hold my hand? Like last time?"

The question startled him. He was both completely surprised and not at all. John couldn't decide how to handle such a demented soul. Rapes like he's making love. He very much knew Jim Moriarty never made love with anyone, except with him in this sick and twisted manner. Sex was another story and he wondered why the man couldn't just rape like every other dirtbag rapist. Rape was typically about displaying power over the victim with force and violence. Moriarty didn't do that, raping sweetly. John was certain he was going to throw up soon. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want this to be happening to him. He wished Sherlock alive so he could come to the rescue. Then changed his mind, deciding he'd rather Sherlock never know the things done to him by their enemy.

John accepted the offered hand like Moriarty knew he would, fingers interlocking. Somehow, keeping hold of his hand like it was some kind of lifeline allowed him to take the suffering without too much struggle. Gripping the hand let him keep himself together. Still, when Moriarty began to move inside of him, wet tears began to stream down his cheeks.

Fingers came up to gently wipe them away. Hatred burned in his chest at the kind gesture, knowing it was anything but kind. This was Moriarty gloating at his victory over John. Verbally, he confirmed John's belief he was satisfied with himself.

"Spirit. That's what you've got. The light in your eyes. Your being good. I wonder if I can break you of that. Do you think I can make you loyal to me?"

A particularly hard thrust caused him to grunt. It hadn't been entirely painful and that bothered him. God damn it! Was it too much to ask for someone to leave him be? This was nothing he'd been trained for. Oh God, Moriarty said he'd punish him for trying to kill him. If the man could keep him for hours simply for knowing Sherlock, how long would he be kept this time? He didn't want to die, but he figured death would be preferable over continuous torment at Moriarty's hands.

Speaking of hands, he squeezed his assailant's hand tight when the man quickened his pace as he neared climax. He buried his face into the bed sheet the best he could from his current position. He wanted to die but he didn't want to die. Such a paradox. Suicide had been enough for Sherlock. Maybe it was something to consider.

/

Four days into his captivity, trapped in the same hotel room occupied by Moriarty, the man dressed and left for the first time. An opportunity for a run to freedom. He was aching everywhere and naked, but it didn't leave him helpless. If he had to, he was in good enough condition to fight or flee.

He forced himself to wait ten full minutes to ensure his captor was truly gone before sliding off the bed. For a second, he considered grabbing up the sheet to cover himself, then decided against it since the material was coated in bodily fluids he'd rather not revisit. There was only one way in or out of the room, locked, as he assumed. He peeked through the peephole and felt his hopes dashed upon sight of Sebastian Moran pacing back and forth in front of the door.

Didn't anyone see the man and find it suspicious? Moriarty had a lot of wealth to his criminal enterprise. He might have bought out every room on the floor to ensure their privacy. Ugh, the thought wasn't a pleasant one. Giving up on the primary exit and entrance as a viable option, he moved to the large windows. Too high up, no wide ledge to conceivably utilize to move to another room.

Two minutes and he understood there was no way out. Well, that wasn't accurate. He searched the room and migrated to the bathroom. There was a shower, toilet, sink, and mirror. Nothing sharp to use as a weapon, yet. He took the soap dish and slammed it into the mirror, shattering the glass to pieces. Stooping to pick up the largest one, he placed it to his wrist. As a doctor, he knew right where to cut, how deep, and how much blood it would take to die. This would be better because then he'd be with Sherlock again at least. More importantly, he wouldn't be here.

"You don't have to die."

John started and cut his arm a little by accident. He looked up to see Moran standing in the bathroom doorway. It dawned on him that it was very much like Moriarty to have the place wired with surveillance. The cameras could have been in place before he ever set foot in the hotel room or during the time he was unconscious, however long that had been. His only sense of time here was when the sun rose and set each day.

Moran answered his questioning face by raising his mobile phone screen toward him. "The cameras feed to this and are motion sensitive. Put the glass down, Captain Watson."

"Captain? I don't get called- Ah. So I was right. You're former military yourself."

"I was a colonel, once. Then freelance work, then..."

"Moriarty," John finished for him.

"You have a much better chance than most to live. Killing yourself is unnecessary. When work calls upon him, he'll leave and he'll let you go."

"When's that? You can't possibly know if he will. He thinks I'm some kind of pet for him to do with as he pleases. This may never end."

"It will. A man like him doesn't have time to stay dormant for long. The fact that he has for this long actually speaks volumes about you."

"How do you mean?"

"He likes you."

John practically choked on his weak response. "What?"

"I'm one of the few employees he bothers to confide in on occasion. He likes you and it infuriates him. I know you've noticed, too, his other weakness aside from being changeable."

"I don't-"

Moran pocketed the phone and gave John a knowing look. "You do know. You've seen it by how comfortable he's become around you and no, it isn't an act. Does that surprise you?"

It did. It shocked John to the core. Moriarty listening to music and tapping to the beat, the chronic gum chewing habit he observed, how sometimes he asked questions about the "regular" people and how they lived. What he'd been seeing was all genuine.

"That doesn't make sense. You don't hold someone prisoner and rape them on a periodic basis if you like them. I know he's insane but that's just- No. It's not possible. I'm nothing but a boring, regular person to him."

The other man continued to look at him. John sighed.

"Why do this to me then?" he asked, voice coming out weaker than he liked. He was exhausted, having not slept much since waking from the brutal beating done by the man staring.

"It began as a punishment. Now, he just likes you. He's never liked anyone before."

"What? He seemed to have a thing for Sherlock. Your boss was obsessed and wouldn't let it go until Sherlock was dead."

Moran shook his head in disagreement. "He hates Sherlock Holmes. The man is one who rivals him in intelligence and he can't stand it. Superiority complex and all that." His eyes trailed up and down John once, then reached over to grab one of the towels on the shelf. Offering it to him, he said, "You can call me Sebastian. I think we're at a first name basis, yes? Now, John, I don't have any desire to see you die, but I follow orders, so don't do anything stupid and the most that'll happen is the sex."

Sex. Horrific rape was more accurate. He took the towel and fixed it around his waist. Despite Moran's lack of understanding for his current predicament, his mind was stuck on what Moran, Sebastian, said about the criminal mastermind liking him. John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Moriarty was a criminal of the worst kind, a monster. For some reason his mind shifted over to the first day he spent here, when he allowed John to take his hand for the duration of the raping. He let John have his hand to grip the final time he forced him years ago at the pool. He flinched a little, sexual assault memories could do that, and suddenly knew he did believe Sebastian.

Horror, shock, and disbelief passed through him. Why would Moriarty do anything to comfort him? Why would he keep him as a live-in and spend time trying to have conversations with his stonily unresponsive captive? His initial thought was morbid curiosity, but he was rarely right the first time so he went with his next thought.

"Loneliness."

Sebastian confirmed it. "His other weakness. Believe me, he does not talk about that one ever."

Silence for a long moment, which he broke. "How can you know?"

"Spend enough time around anyone and you eventually see things."

"See things like this?"

Moran stiffened and solidified his stance into one of an obedient soldier, turning to face his boss. Moriarty was standing outside the bathroom, hands in the pockets of the expensive suit he had not left the hotel in. John wondered what might have gotten on the old one to warrant the change. It was probably best not to know.

"And what..dare I ask, might I be seeing, Sebastian?"

It didn't take much for John to realize Moriarty's dead calm was a mask for the anger hidden just beneath. His eyes were dark, near black. The eyes swept the fair-sized bathroom, taking in the shattered mirror, him, and the shard still placed against a wrist, blood dripping from the accidental cut.

"Moran. Return to your post. Your services are no longer required."

Relief he'd escaped unscathed crossed his features and then he was gone, leaving John alone. He suspected he was going to face punishment for his actions. A single glance at the situation and he knew his captor knew what nearly transpired. The good news was that he likely thought Sebastian only came to stop his suicide attempt and had no knowledge of the conversation between them. Well, it was good news for Moriarty's employee anyway. He doubted he would be granted reprieve as the "pet".

Moriarty removed his hands from his pockets and stepped inside, closing the bathroom door behind him. Suddenly the room seemed a heck of a lot more confined.

"I contemplated paying you a visit before you came to me in this hotel, before you figured out I was alive. Maybe finishing you off so you could join your precious detective consultant in the afterlife," Moriarty shared, eyes randomly glancing upward at the corners of the ceiling as he spoke.

"I didn't figure you to be one for mercy."

He'd always been an honest person. Why stop because a vicious psychopath had him trapped in a bathroom? Besides, Moriarty could see through the lies, not unlike Mycroft. Wow, now there was a name that filled him with hot anger. He had not spoken more than two-word phrases to the elder Holmes brother since the day Sherlock died, despite numerous attempts on the other man's part to contact him.

His thoughts vanished when Moriarty grinned rather maliciously at him, moving forward and stopping a foot away. Too close.

"Oh, I'm not. But you looked so sad already. Devastated. Alone. No longer running around being a nuisance to my work with your..partner. And it seems you've found a new fire to get you going again of late. That light in your eyes has returned. Determination to do good and not just be good, right, Johnny?" He didn't want a reply and he didn't wait for one. "I've heard rumors. Hard to believe rumors about you."

John tensed but made sure not to give anything away. Moriarty couldn't possibly know what he'd been up to when Mycroft Holmes wasn't even aware. Interrogation apparently wasn't on the list for today's torments, however, and the man settled for taking hold of John's arm that held the sharp piece of glass.

He thought about using that piece to commit an act of homicide, but almost immediately discarded the idea. If it worked, he didn't believe Moran would hesitate to come in and shoot him dead. Moriarty eased the shard out of his loose grasp with ease, and then jammed it so deep into the small cut on his left arm that he swore it scraped bone. Searing pain exploded across the entirety of his arm. When he reached to pull out the glass, the grip on his arm tightened until he thought his wrist would break.

"Suicide will not suffice for your end, Johnny. Oh no. It won't do at all."

The madness gleamed in Moriarty's eyes and he had to swallow down the bile and fear creeping up his throat.

"On your knees."

He followed the command praying his obedience would mean the glass could be removed. It was taken out to be traced along his jawline and throat. He kept very still, not wanting to give Moriarty a reason to cut him open. John was aware those were strange thoughts for a man willing to take his own life minutes ago. Maybe he hadn't been as resigned to commit the act as he thought. He wished he was. Then he wouldn't be sitting with his knees on cold tile while Moriarty held a sharp piece of glass to his neck.

"I gave him a choice."

John knew exactly who he was referring to. The pair of them only ever had one man in common. His gaze flickered from watching the glass at his throat to the dark eyes boring into his own.

"Three bullets. Three targets. They died, or he did."

Once again he was horrified. Sherlock jumped because he had no other option. That had always been something that bothered him about the day it happened. Sherlock and suicide hadn't quite gone together. The man might have been reckless and disregarded his own safety frequently for the thrill of solving a case or discovering an answer, but the call from his friend on the roof had been different.

"You made him jump."

"The choice was his. It was hardly my fault he cared more for you than himself. I had hoped he wouldn't be so weak, so predictable. Then again, I was counting on it."

Spoken matter-of-fact. Yes, John decided, he really would like to take that piece of glass and stab the other man in his cold, black heart.

"You said three targets."

Raising his blood covered right hand, he ticked them off. "You, the landlady, and the cop. Though, really, he jumped for you. Yours was the only name he spoke."

"He probably did that since you used me against him before."

"And why do you think that was?"

The glass slid into his chest so easily, it was like cutting through butter. John stared at the tool responsible for his great pain. Moriarty moved it about his chest, pushing it in an inch at most before pulling it out and repeating on a different spot. Not deep enough to do serious harm, but plenty deep enough to hurt like hell. He supposed it was lucky it'd taken 'til the fifth day for Moriarty to do more than rape him over and over, have one-sided conversations, and well, the fairly unpleasant beating that began his capture.

Jesus. Had he become this numb to his situation? No wonder he considered suicide. He accepted this hell as his reality and that was certainly not all right. Suicidal thoughts... Moriarty succeeded in what John knew he intended. He wanted to ensure John wouldn't attempt suicide as a way out again and he wouldn't because now he understood. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped if he had any other choice. It had been a sacrifice. A bloody stupid one.

Moriarty seemed to notice his mind was straying because he spoke his name, low and dangerous, and then shoved him so he fell flat on his back. The towel was ripped away and the glass utilized as a weapon was drawing crimson lines down his inner thighs enthusiastically. His left arm throbbed with pain so it remained limp at his side, but the other he repeatedly curled into a fist. He tried desperately to name each and every bone residing in the hand. Each curl of his fist brought a wave of discomfort from what was possibly a fractured wrist. In comparison to the white hot pain radiating from his thighs as they were sliced into, it was tolerable and gave him something to focus on.

The agony was so intense, he hadn't noticed the cutting ceased until Moriarty's face was suddenly in his, staring directly into his eyes. A quick glance down informed him the weapon had been tossed aside somewhere. The eyes were lighter than before and the owner of those eyes looked puzzled a bit.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered softly into his ear. "It just gets to me that he thinks he can fool me. I've won. He may still breathe but I've won."

Before he could so much as choke out a baffled word in return, Moriarty pushed inside of him in one smooth motion. He'd never noticed him unzip his trousers. The previous times made it easier this time, and the blood served as excellent lubrication to allow the intrusion. He didn't think he was going to anymore, he was going to.

Jerking his head to the side, he threw up all over blood-soaked tile. Moriarty made a sound he supposed was meant to mimic sympathy, and a hand moved up to brush strands of hair back from his forehead. It was an annoyingly comforting gesture considering what was happening.

Two hours later and he'd been bathed, bleeding stopped with a chemical hemostat acquired who knows how. It wasn't optimal treatment and his wounds were going to need much more care than that, but it served the purpose of keeping him alive and conscious, courtesy of Moran. Yes, how fortunate for him that Moriarty wanted to keep him breathing. Breathing... He knew he shouldn't think such things but ever since he heard Moriarty slip out that Sherlock was breathing, he held the hope it was true.

He half lay, half sat upright on the bed, pillows cushioning his back and head, a sheet drawn up and crumpled around his lower stomach. Moriarty had gone out again, for maybe an hour, and when he returned he was on the phone speaking harsh words to whoever was on the other end. John continued to sit where Moran put him, staring out the window at the mid-afternoon sunlight.

The call must have ended because suddenly Moriarty plopped down beside him on the bed. When he'd gone out, he exchanged the ruined Westwood suit for a pair of jeans and a simple cotton t-shirt. Easing himself into a similar position as John, he switched on the television. Temporarily he shifted and produced a small package in his hand, holding it out to John.

"Gum?"

Never had such a simplistic question made him so afraid. He hated witnessing the human side of Moriarty. It left him feeling like he could fix him because he was a doctor and doctors helped people. He let the fear fade into the recesses of his mind, staring blankly at the telly. He'd been given pain pills but was still in pain and aside from that, he was so tired.

Reaching out to accept the gum, he asked, "Figure on a name for me?"

Moriarty let out a delighted laugh and he ignored the voice inside his head telling him he didn't mind that laugh. An arm came around his shoulder, tugging him gently so his head rested on Moriarty's right shoulder and chest.

"You're so very tired. You need to sleep."

He really was exhausted, the medication enough to dull the incessant throbbing of the nerves in his whole body. Fear and pain could only keep him awake for so long, and his current pillow was kind of comfortable. The feel of the wrapped stick of gum held in his palm became another fading sensation. Darkness began to creep around the edges of his mind and his eyes grew heavy. As they began to flutter closed, he felt lips ghost along the top of his forehead.

"To live is to suffer, my hound."

Hound, not just dog or mutt. A hound was known for its loyalty and was a symbol of bravery and honor. He did believe Moriarty complimented him. That was new. He drifted into a deep sleep and somehow knew he would sleep without any nightmares to plague him. A relief, when his waking hours were a nightmare unto itself.

/

Jim glanced down at his insistent phone. He'd fallen asleep along with Dr. Watson some time ago. Seven hours had passed and his duties were impatiently awaiting him. He received plenty of consulting opportunities since the time he began keeping the man curled against his side in this hotel room. He accepted only a few since he was otherwise occupied these last few days.

Shutting off his phone, he shoved it in his pocket and pulled the doctor closer, switching to a news channel before tossing the remote onto the desk beside the bed. A recent suicide reported of a man who jumped to his death. He smirked. What they didn't know was the man's wife had been dosing her husband's contact lenses with a solution making him prone to depression. He'd seen it on a show once and when the opportunity presented itself, he decided to try it out. Jim wouldn't be the only one in for a payday. The husband's estate was substantial and now belonged solely to the widow.

When the man in his arms shifted and began to wake, he realized what he was doing. He'd taken him prisoner and hurt him to make him pay for trying to murder him. Torment had certainly been his game for the most part. But then there were those other parts where he gave John a break and merely sat with him. Sometimes they talked, or rather he talked and John pretended to be ignoring him. Sometimes they watched television together or listened to music. In a way, it was a game in itself. Not one he was used to. Initially he found trying out domesticity to be amusing, but the longer it went on the more he rather liked it. A situation most inadvisable for a man such as him.

Bright eyes blinked up at him sleepily. Registering who he was looking at, the eyes grew cold and distant. The reflection of hatred and a desire for self-preservation. He wasn't sure whether he wished to kill or kiss the man staring at him. After a long moment, the gaze became more tired than anything else and looked away.

Damn. He was enjoying his time spent with John, who was supposed to be an average person. Average people were boring and dull. John wasn't the least bit boring or dull. Unacceptable. Why didn't he think he was? Why couldn't he? It must be having someone to control and hurt that pleased him. Another glance at those eyes told him differently. He very much liked John.

"Stay," he told John, and slipped off the bed and out of the room.

He had to be mistaken. He was never mistaken. Distance would do him good right now.

/

Sherlock could be alive. It was possible. A long shot since the only evidence favoring such an outcome came from a man who destroyed Sherlock's reputation which resulted in his suicide. At least that was what he thought until yesterday. It could be Moriarty was merely toying with him, giving a false belief in order to prolong his suffering over losing his best friend. Still, there was a feeling deep within him that he couldn't shake. Hope.

/

Day six. This was day six. He wondered if Moran had just been deceiving him about Moriarty letting him go. What if the man decided to take him with and continue treating him like nothing more than a pet or toy or whatever the insane man thought he was? He hadn't realized he'd made up his mind until the door was unlocking and Moriarty was stepping inside. He'd been spending the last hour walking back and forth in front of the window, out of some small idea someone might see him and think something was amiss. That and it took his mind off of the injuries. He needed a hospital. Surely he faced infection from so many cuts and stab wounds. If he couldn't get to a hospital and he couldn't get away, then maybe he could make it so Moriarty did want to leave him be.

Boring didn't work, so being a nuisance was worth a try.

"If Sherlock is alive that means he beat you at your own game."

Moriarty froze mid-motion, reaching to turn on the main lights to the room when he entered. A smile pasted onto his face, utterly fake, and he turned to regard John, waiting for whatever he was getting at. John wasn't sure himself. He was sort of just going with this. Say anything that could get to him being the goal. Then he'd be dead or out of this damn room. Either way, he'd be free.

"Does it bother you? Knowing you couldn't win against Sherlock?"

"I did win. He died."

His next words stuck in his throat temporarily. So maybe Moriarty had been messing with him. He gaze scanned the man in the suit, wondering how much he wanted freedom and how to go about this.

"You said he was alive which means he might be. If he lives, you didn't win. Alive or dead, Sherlock's still better than you."

Now the smile that spread across Moriarty's face appeared genuine. "Are you trying to upset me, Dr. Watson?"

"You know, I'd say you lost your mind, keeping me here as a pet and thinking you and me can somehow be like Sherlock and I were, but, well, we both know you've been crazy long before ever meeting me."

Moriarty made a noise he couldn't distinguish, but he thought he was getting somewhere so he went the full distance.

"You've never been loved. It's sad, heart-breaking really. And you never will be, you continue this way."

The heated gaze was positively deadly. Death. This was probably going to earn him death. Oh well... He went for it.

"I don't think I can even hate you anymore. I mean, you're a monster, no mistaking it. And I hate you for what you've done, to me, to Sherlock, to all those innocent people. But honestly, Moriarty, knowing you'll never know love, I pity you."

He said the words simply, like he was stating facts. He figured Moriarty could appreciate that since he did it so often. Then again, even if he spoke the truth, it was an unwanted truth.

The first blow hit him in the face so hard it felt like his teeth were rattling around his mouth. He'd known Moriarty capable of dealing damage since he learned the hard way the man was stronger than he appeared, but still, it hurt. The second blow sent him to the ground but he didn't fight it. There was little point in fighting back when he knew Moran would enter and put a stop to him if he got the better of Moriarty.

He bit back a scream when a kick landed against bruised ribs and he heard a crack. Blow after blow rained down upon his already messed up body and he laid there. Eyes squeezed shut to try and handle the agony of the assault. Even with pain radiating throughout his whole self, he managed to maintain a single thought that made it bearable. He'd gotten the upper hand here. Moriarty beating him like this for mere words spoken meant he'd gotten to the criminal mastermind.

Blood was welling up in his mouth as his attacker focused on pulverizing his face. So this was how it was going to end, bloody and naked and so alone. He didn't like being alone.

Just when he thought he was going to pass out, he realized he wasn't hit anymore. When did it stop happening? The passage of time was a tricky thing when in this horrid condition. A rougher face than Moriarty's appeared in his hazy line of sight. Moran. He was saying something to John but it sounded garbled. He did manage to make out the last bit said to him.

"I told you he was pissed about it."

Pissed? Oh, the inconceivable ideas that Moriarty liked John and the man got lonely. Ridiculous notions and even more ridiculous, it made John want to laugh, even through the blood and tears streaming down his swelling face. He did think he managed a smile before losing consciousness. God, he hadn't smiled since Sherlock died. He supposed it was fitting he smile one last time before he died.

To live is to suffer, Moriarty said. If he died, it seemed his own suffering was at an end. Maybe he'd get to see Sherlock again. That was his final thought, and then he thought nothing.