Chapter 10

The Boring Man

He roused from heavy sleep when he felt the car swerve to a halt, presumably outside the safehouse. A quick glance out the window to see a random house among the trees telling him they were no longer in London. Somewhere not too far outside the city considering it was still night. Sherlock noticed his return to consciousness. He straightened into a proper seated position instead of staying where he'd been pulled against his friend's side. His fingers tugged on the vest he wore on bare skin again.

Distance would make this easier. He didn't plan to stick around. He wasn't intending to hide like everyone wanted. Especially when this was a thing James Moriarty was agreeing with and helping. Why would the criminal help him, help Sherlock? Either something else was afoot or he was enjoying himself.

Anger at Sherlock was building. He stoically got out of the car and walked to the house on his own two feet, despite Sherlock's attempt to guide him along. Sherlock was behaving unlike Sherlock, guilt evident in his eyes. The sorry idiot was blaming himself for what John chose to do. Where'd the emotionally constipated Holmes disappear to all of a sudden? Four months the man had been his usual self, uncaring about the majority of things life had to offer, living for the high puzzling cases offered. Then John gets into a sticky situation and the detective consultant becomes concerned and guilty. How inconvenient.

They followed Moran and Moriarty into the house and he decided it best to push the idea out of Sherlock's head before it could fester. His flatmate liked to think he was right and would want to act on it. He was in enough danger unless he finished this. He didn't need Sherlock to get involved, and in effect, into danger.

"Stop doing that."

Sherlock glanced down at him sharply. Damn those piercing blue eyes.

"This is not your fault."

The look he was given in return was not one of belief and understanding. If anything, he appeared guiltier.

"This is not your fault!"

He didn't mean to yell. When it came to Sherlock, his temper seemed to rise so easily in matters between the pair of them. Six months and he wondered if they would ever be the same. He had him back, but he didn't have him back.

"Tell me..."

Great. This was not the beginning of a phrase meaning Sherlock agreed and understood him.

"And be honest."

On the word "honest", Sherlock practically hissed. He had a point there. John was less than truthful to his friend since he returned from the dead. He waited apprehensively for the big question coming.

"Would you have gone into such danger in your endeavor to continue stopping crime, had I not left you the way I did? Don't lie."

Sherlock knew plenty. He figured out John's desire to live a life somewhat similar to the one he lived with the consulting detective. Sherlock deduced John went to extreme measures to continue making himself useful as well as placing himself in the danger he sometimes craved. Worst of all, he knew the reason he put himself in the hands of the government in the search for justice and saving lives. He couldn't go back to the army with his psychosomatic leg occasionally acting up and took a different route. The route was one he would never have taken if he hadn't seen his dearest friend leap off of a bloody roof.

There was only silence following the question and he knew it said everything Sherlock needed to hear. "As I thought."

He looked away, taking in their new accommodations. A variety of furnishings filled the single-story house's main room. The furnishings were a deep chestnut color or a crimson shade. There was a sofa, a few armchairs, several tables, a bookshelf lined with books, and heavy curtains blocking the windows. It all felt very in the style of Moriarty. A small standard kitchen branched off from the sitting room and there was a hall with four different doorways. Beyond that he couldn't know what was behind those doors from his current position.

His body was was exhausted while his mind was wired above any desire for sleep. The human brain was a complex system and yet so simple. An ordinary man would be how he was, exhausted and wishing for rest to come. He also understood what he could not have and that was rest. John had to get the job done before it was too late. The rest could come later. This was all on him. His handler wouldn't help anymore. Not unless he came up with concrete evidence his handler could give to his bosses to allow the shut down of the program and warrants issued appropriately.

John waved his hand toward one of the armchairs. "Have a seat then, since apparently we're going to be sitting this one out."

There was anger in his voice, admittedly reverting to an immature version of himself. It was better than pretending to be calm and having Sherlock worry. He'd much rather have Sherlock be annoyed with him. All right, that was childish, but he wasn't in the mood to care.

Sherlock budged from the front door, not to sit. He followed John walking to the darkened hallway. In the meantime, Moriarty flopped down on the sofa and started fluffing the pillow beneath his head. It was strangely normal to see on a most unusual man. That wasn't his concern. His concern was getting out.

"Let me alone," he snapped. "It's the loo, not a warzone."

It was Moriarty's chuckling that got Sherlock to retreat. He didn't go over to the armchair, possibly because it was too close to the sofa where his enemy reclined comfortably. He chose to stand near the front door. That mind was anything but blank and on standby, no matter his current expression. John imagined it was frantically churning and spinning a variety of thoughts and ideas throughout his neural pathways.

The bathroom door was the first one on the left. He let it slam shut behind him, releasing a fraction of the anger he felt for his current life situation. There wasn't a lock on the door. He doubted it would be a problem. Realizing he had to relieve his bladder, he did, fidgeting with the assault vest for a moment. He wasn't quite used to feeling this material on bare skin. He flushed the toilet and switched on the sink, proceeding to the far side of the room.

John unlocked the window and slid it open as quietly as possible. The process took a full thirty seconds to ensure he was unheard by the pair of geniuses in the other room. Silently as he could, he hopped out the window and onto the grass below.

Turning away from the house to leave, he turned into the one man who completely slipped off his radar. Sebastian Moran was standing near the doorway, mouth slightly agape with a lit cigarette hanging between his lips. A man jumping out the bathroom window was not an expected occurrence. This man was gifted at slipping into the shadows and into the recesses of a person's mind. John hadn't considered where the man was after entering the house and it possibly cost him his escape.

"Uh, hi. Err... Just going for a stroll?" he tried, oh so pathetically.

Moran wasn't having any of it. He regained his composure, taking a final drag on his cancer stick. He let it drop and stomped it out. A glance from the window to John and he was moving toward him. He backed away. Moran took longer strides and then he was picked up and swung over a broad shoulder. It was utterly insulting.

He heard the front door opening and closing, and Moran's low voice. "I believe this belongs to you."

John was promptly dropped onto the carpeted floor inside the door. He growled angrily up at the reason for his return to this bizarre room. Sherlock and Moriarty weren't in the middle of a battle of minds, he wasn't being treated as the silly little man they believed him to be, and his opinion mattered. Yeah, sure.

"You keeping me here solves nothing!"

"John."

He ignored Sherlock. He didn't want to see what was there. A glint in his eyes giving away his fascination with the mystery to be explored. He knew Sherlock saw a puzzle to be worked as soon as he'd discovered there were secrets. It was just the way the man thought. His brain needed stimulation and when there was a mystery to solve, he was in it completely until satisfied.

"It isn't done. I have to find the woman in charge since I'm sure she's all over damage control with her partner in the project dead. There's no way I can salvage my cover but since they already know, I'll just get in quick and grab what I need."

"Get in-" Sherlock corrected his current line of speaking. "Your brilliant plan is a snatch and grab. This is your solution for ending a government sanctioned project that is so classified, hardly anyone knows it exists?"

John hated how he was spoken to like an idiot. Like he didn't realize what he was saying would be a little more difficult than it sounded. He had to try or his undercover work would amount to nothing. Why couldn't Sherlock understand the urge to be out there doing something instead of sitting idle? It was the very definition of his friend most of the time.

"So what, I should wait here for them to solidify and concentrate a manhunt to come looking for me? Stop acting like you have all the answers and I couldn't possibly have any."

"I don't have all the answers, not a one, and that is why you must stay put where I can be sure you're safe."

An admittance of lacking knowledge and of caring... Different. He forced his gaze to meet Sherlock's and saw intensity in those eyes, solely focused on him. Or was it the mystery he represented? Was it concern for his well-being or fascination at a puzzle to be worked out?

"You can't be sure I'll be safe, not ever. That's just how life works. I can't believe you're actually placing your trust in Moriarty of all people to keep me safe. Are you mental?"

Sherlock's eyes seemed to fade to a lighter color. They looked colder.

"Don't be naive. I don't trust him. You said you wanted to come here. That's the only reason we're here. If you want to go, fine, but it will be in the company of Mycroft and his people. Anyone else, including Lestrade, would be foolish enough to let you... I don't know, slip out a bathroom window. We won't be making that mistake again, will we? No unsupervised visits to the toilet. You've lost that privilege."

"What? Now you're making rules? Hell no. I'm leaving and you won't stop me- Ow."

He stared wide-eyed at the needle in his arm, plunger pushed all the way in so the syringe emptied. John couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe Moran resorted to drugging him into compliance.

"You..carry sedative filled plungers often?"

Moran gave a jerky shake of his head. "Only when dealing with irate doctors who won't listen to reason."

He managed a scoff, even as his head grew light and his limbs grew heavy. "You're the ones who won't hear reason. I am extremely pissed. Someone better catch me."

Arms snagged him out of the air when his legs began to sag, gravity doing its work against him. He stared up at Moran and spotted a second head coming into the quickly fading picture. Before he could see who it was his vision went haywire. He allowed his drooping eyelids to close, accepting the invading darkness.

/

"How dull."

"Shut it, Jim."

"Why should I?" Moriarty countered.

"Because you're still a bastard."

The other man smirked in response to Sherlock, although his attention was on Moran carrying a limp doctor into one of two bedrooms. They both knew if Moriarty decided to turn on them now, there wouldn't be time enough to act to stop them on his brother's behalf. As much as he didn't like to admit it, his brother had his uses. The government had an apparent dependence on Mycroft, granting him a useful position of power.

Moriarty followed his man down the corridor, glancing Sherlock's way. Every look of Moriarty's had some kind of meaning and this was no different. He followed grudgingly after them.

"I wonder how much it would bother you if I were to figure this little puzzle of ours out. Does this go deeper? Or is Dr. Watson another ordinary, everyday man tricked into working for bad men?"

"You know it isn't as simple as that. John's not stupid."

The other raised his eyebrows. "Really? Hearing you talk, sure sounds like you find the man to be just that. Poor Johnny even thinks you believe he's an idiot, incapable of making his own decisions."

"Not true."

Moriarty's hands went into the pockets of his dress pants and he shrugged, head beginning a stretching pattern with his neck. "Doesn't matter if it's true, only what he believes is true."

"So, what?" Sherlock began, entering the bedroom after Moriarty, who told Moran he could leave the room. "Since you can't seem to kill me, you're going to hurt John? Make him think mean, heartless Sherlock couldn't care less about his friend?"

"I don't have to lift a finger," Moriarty drawled contentedly. "You're doing a wonderful job convincing him of that all on your own. Now..if you'll excuse me..."

The man started humming as he crawled onto the bed and began undressing the unconscious former army doctor. Sherlock's stricken expression observed the scene. He was uncertain in these situations of former victim and assailant, enemy aiding enemy. What should be allowed? What could be trusted?

Moriarty ceased his movements after removing the vest, surveying how frigid he had become. He rolled his eyes impatiently, and with clear annoyance tilted his head in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock frowned.

"What?" His eyes scanned John's prone form on the bed, the present half-dressed appearance, and rolled the thought of the past between him and the man through his head. He was broadcasting it on his face for Sherlock to understand. "Oh come now. It's no fun when they're unconscious."

The joke was in poor taste and so very much like Moriarty. He wasn't a human being. He made a mockery of what he thought the average human to be. Sherlock sometimes wondered how Moriarty ticked, but when it came to protecting John, there was no middle ground. It would be John every time.

While he thought, Moriarty's searching gaze caught something. Sherlock peered closely. His interested look was on the jagged scar nearly three inches in length located on John's left arm. A mark left when his friend had been held captive by the psychopath for almost an entire week. Moriarty appeared mesmerized by the mark. It didn't sit well with him.

Sherlock moved to the bed and pushed Moriarty away, resuming the task of removing John's black soldier attire. "Rape or not, I don't think he'll want you touching him."

Moriarty sighed and cracked his neck in exaggerated fashion. "Ah well, suppose I'll go take my evil self and leave the pair of you alone."

"Moriarty."

The man paused in the doorway, waiting.

"Why do this? Why help us?"

"Because it intrigues me?"

Sherlock shook his head. No, he wasn't buying that.

A grin overtook his prior straight face. "Who says I'm helping you?"

"What? Well, clearly you-"

"You know what the ordinary folk say about appearances."

Of course he did. They could be deceiving. He did it all the time to get the results he wanted. Sherlock didn't comprehend what that had to do with Moriarty giving him and John a place to hide. Apparently the criminal consultant wasn't going to divulge his latest thoughts or plans, choosing to say his own thing.

"What really draws me to this at the moment, is how such a boring man can draw so much interest to him." The man wiggled his eyebrows at him. "I can't wait to see what happens next."

The familiar churning in the pit of his stomach. Moriarty's way to make him both curious and utterly disgusted at the same time was uncanny. He turned his back to the door and heard Moriarty's footsteps moving down the hall and away from them. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pulled the covers over John's mostly naked form, pleased to find there were no fresh wounds. It appeared the drug was effective accelerating the body's natural healing ability. His initial response was a desire to dissect this formula and examine it through a microscope. He glanced down at John and felt a different kind of feeling tugging at him.

Sherlock grabbed a chair and tugged it to the bed, having a seat to watch over John. Placing his fingertips together, he brought them under his chin, thinking on the science of the drug. If he would not allow himself the pleasure of obtaining and studying the experimental drug, he would attempt to piece together how such a thing could come about in his own mind. This drug sounded miraculous. Too good to be true for those who would wield it. There had to be a flaw that would deem the drug unfit for distribution. He would figure it out and the drug would never be legally utilized for ill-intent. This was what he could do.