Chapter 11

The Doctor

Part One

John spent the first ten minutes conscious trying to find a way out of the handcuffs locking his right wrist to the bedpost. He spent the next five using such foul words at Sherlock that his friend left him to himself to avoid hearing any more. That was fine by him. He wanted to be alone. He didn't need Sherlock. At least, he didn't want Sherlock to think he was needed. The man got bored at many things. Getting bored with him was nothing new so he was glad when he succeeded in driving him away.

He smirked at his accomplishment, mildly surprised Sherlock hadn't been able to pick up on all the signs of withdrawal. He was experiencing cold sweats and erratic sleep patterns. When he woke he was aware the experimental drug was out of his system and an intense migraine kept him wide awake from then on. The stream of swearing against his friend also told him irritation was a side effect of withdrawal.

As a doctor, he knew what to possibly expect in the future and a few he was already experiencing. Insomnia, sweating, and palpitations. From his position trapped to a bed, the project's base of experimentation far out of reach, he wouldn't be able to dose. He wanted to, badly. His rational mind told him dosing would be giving in and he'd be an addict. Oh, he wanted to. There were no drugs of his kind here, which left self-medicating of a different sort. He glanced about the room, eyes landing on the bedside drawer and storage shelf underneath.

John couldn't believe his incredible luck. Moriarty's safehouse bedroom had supplies. The drawer contained a couple of mystery novels and the storage shelf underneath contained drinking glasses and numerous bottles of hard liquor all in a row. The liquor was the expensive sort and would take the edge off of his growing urge to get hold of the drug he'd been forced on.

He had to strain his arm, cuff digging into his wrist, but he was able to lean down far enough to latch onto the nearest bottle. The liquor was no real substitute for the drug he desired and he dredged up negative thoughts of Sherlock to help him along. If Sherlock really cared he would have stayed in the room. If Sherlock was concerned for him he would still be by the bed instead of in the other room with their greatest enemy. Sherlock lied to him before, he was lying now. He felt better drinking himself into oblivion, even knowing his friend did not deserve blame.

When Sherlock returned to the room and unlocked the handcuffs, announcing he brought visitors and new clothes for John, he leaned forward to finish the bottle concealed under the sheets. His friend brought him a different sort of remedy. Whoops. Sherlock stared in horror, noticing the empty liquor bottles strewn about the bed for the first time. He snatched the almost empty bottle from John's hand, causing him to curse at a man only concerned.

Sherlock reached for him and he rolled out of the bed to avoid either a soothing touch or a reapplication of the handcuffs. Staggering to his feet, he focused his eyes as much as they would and made it into the hallway. His estimation was off and he ended up crashing against the opposite wall. A giggle slipped from his mouth and he slid to the floor, forcing his head upright as he did.

He felt a little bad when he identified his pair of visitors looking every bit as worried as Sherlock when they saw him. Why was everyone so obsessed with his health? He was the trained medical one with actual field experience. He'd been under the control of a dangerous drug and was now free. He was drunk but would be sober soon enough. John stared at Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson with glazed eyes while attempting to keep his head from bobbing sporadically.

"Oh, hello."

A wince. The greeting came out slurred, exposing his drunken state. Mrs. Hudson looked shocked and Lestrade was confused and then mildly surprised.

"Damn it, John. This is your solution for being here?" Sherlock was frowning. "This is absurd."

Drunk or not, John managed to roll his eyes. "Not a solution. Not for that. Thought you would know, being all," he waved his hands to symbolize one who was all-knowing. "Genius and brilliant."

Sherlock stared. He didn't know why he said it. His mind just went there, the words blurting out before he could stop them.

"Maybe I'll just jump off a roof. That'll solve all my troubles."

John was far too inebriated to really see the gleeful expression on Moriarty's face at his cruel words. He failed to comprehend Lestrade's look of horror or Mrs. Hudson's stunned and saddened gaze. He didn't see a disappointed stare from Moran or Sherlock's anger. Maybe he did notice all of these things. His head was feeling fuzzy and he wondered how much he drank to get rid of the urges. Maybe he was an idiot.

"The doctor is self-medicating, Sherlock. You would see it if you weren't so concerned for how his heart feels. The one that fills up his empty little head."

"Enough from you, Moriarty."

"Oh, Sherlock, you-"

"Sherlock," he groaned.

He'd be more than happy to let the two argue and battle with words as per usual, but his vision was spotting and darkening. John recognized the signs. He was going to pass out and was rapidly understanding he must have had far too much alcohol. He was uncertain whether his body would continue to function. John slid the rest of the way to the floor growing ever tired and lost consciousness.

Becoming aware again, John choked out liquid bile as his body revolted against the poison in his stomach. Someone turned him to his side. He was soaking wet, rain cascading onto his face and chest. How was it raining inside?

It was a shower. Hands slapped his cheeks and he tried to protest this was not doctor recommended. He finally stopped regurgitating alcohol and reached up to lock his arms around bony wrists. A pale face leaned into his, forehead pressing to his own. He'd never been more relieved.

He was alive and Sherlock was here, taking care of him for once. "Sherrr..."

Damn. Still slurring. He sobered considerably from when he was in the hallway but it wasn't enough.

"Relax. Don't tire yourself trying to speak."

"On the contrary, speaking is precisely what I need him to do."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

John blinked away droplets of water, opening his eyes to stare into Sherlock's gray eyes staring through him, searching, unrelenting. When did Mycroft arrive? First Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson coming to the house, now Mycroft. So much for a secretive and secure place to hide.

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke in a warning tone.

"Not now," snapped Sherlock.

"I gave you twenty-four hours. Now is the time to get to the bottom of this. I must speak with John. A debriefing is required, no matter how he desires to abuse himself."

"He didn't mean to drink so much."

"Yes, I know. He drank copious amounts of alcohol in order to compensate for the extreme withdrawal afflicting him. Shall we move on? Perhaps John would like to explain who he's been working for and why he killed over a dozen people for MI6."

"You've been working for MI6?"

John released a ragged breath he was unintentionally holding in and pulled away from Sherlock, placing his back against the tile wall of the shower. He blinked under the brightness of the bathroom's lights and took in Mycroft's leaned pose at the room's doorway. Just beyond the finely dressed man's elbow he saw Lestrade consoling Mrs. Hudson. His fault, like a lot of things of late. Guilt consumed, the recent sickness and the alcohol issue fading to the background.

"Yeah," he managed.

Sherlock smiled. "Cool."

He maybe would have smiled but Moriarty ruined the moment by drawling out a comment from the other room. "How drab. An ordinary man and a sad doctor who can't seem to stick to his limited profession."

The hell if John was going to let him say that while he sat wet and pathetic as he tried to sober up sitting in a shower with Sherlock. He felt low as things were.

"I'm not the one who can't seem to stick to a sane mind, let alone a sane profession."

It surprised him when Moriarty sauntered up to stand behind Mycroft at the door to snark right back. He didn't think the criminal would bother humoring his remark.

"Sarcasm is the recourse of a weak mind."

"This government business," Sherlock leaned in close. "Far from dull."

John used the moment to look into his friend's eyes. He saw what he worried he'd see. Sherlock's eyes were shining. He was thinking about the puzzle inside, the thing there was to be solved.

"Come off it, Sherlock. I don't want to talk about this."

A hand closed around his own and he felt wet fabric slide against his shoulder as Sherlock shifted his position to sit next to him. His eyes remained on John and he slowly shook his head at him which was perplexing. A long moment they sat in silence and John was hyperaware of the fact Sherlock was holding his hand.

"Stop protecting me, John. I know this is what you are doing. I don't need you to. The deceit, the lies of omission, need to stop now."

That left him stewing quietly, gaze locked on his knees. He didn't want to put any of them at risk. He didn't want to be in danger himself anymore. He wished he could maybe drink a bit more to forget the drug his body was urging him to have. There just didn't seem to be an upside to telling the truth.

"People are often fascinated with me but they rarely like me."

What a strange thing for Sherlock to say. John kept staring at his knees. It was worth waiting to see what his friend was saying.

"Most everyone who meets you likes you, John. I wish I had that."

His head jolted up to look at his friend. "No you don't. You hate people."

"And why do you think that is?"

He stared hard at the man. It dawned on him then, Sherlock began to hate people because they hated him. They hated him for being the way he was, smarter than all of them and exposing things they'd rather not have said aloud. He squeezed Sherlock's hand once and turned his attention to the elder Holmes.

/

"And when have your plans been successful one hundred percent?"

Sebastian sighed hearing the doctor snap defensively at the brothers Holmes concerning his decision to go undercover for MI6. Done in order to expose traitorous and self-interested employees within the government. If it had been his job to do, he would have simply executed the suspected parties. No one alive, no one remaining to be future problems.

The day he became an adult in the eyes of the law, he joined the army and turned his back on a life he would rather not remember. It was easy to do. He never had a real home, bouncing around foster home to foster home. His parents were either dead or deadbeats and he didn't care to know. Not that he couldn't uncover his birth parents' identities if he wished. Sebastian always knew how to find the things he needed.

"Fine. I never killed any of them."

Confused reactions from the pair of Holmes'.

"Not a one," John confirmed. "I drugged them, put them to sleep. They've been asleep since they went missing. I'll give you the address of the hospital where I put them safely in a coma ward. Some of them are innocent, others you might like to lock up. I'll leave that to you, Mycroft. Have fun debriefing each and every one of them."

This time, Sebastian looked to the doorway where John could partially be seen from behind Mycroft Holmes's tall form. He observed the way Moriarty looked along with everyone else and then consciously removed himself from the vicinity of the bathroom. He returned to a relaxed position on the sofa to pretend not to care for the government business conversation. It gave away the consulting criminal was impressed and a tad intimidated. Nothing intimidated James Moriarty. No one ever got to him.

What Watson accomplished was indeed impressive. For undergoing first time undercover work, he fooled those he needed to fool and didn't drink the Kool-Aid, so to speak, until it was forcibly injected into his bloodstream. All of that while maintaining his honor and pursuing the mission goal despite being kidnapped, his sister's attack, Sherlock Holmes returning improbably from the grave, and getting shot by a person unknown. He was really liking this fellow.

Sebastian was a man who always saw things to completion. He thought himself to be an honorable man, soldiering through his entire life. By no means was he cruel. Now Moriarty was cruel. He did work for a cruel man so he had done cruel things in the past. Except Moriarty wasn't always cruel.

His research on his current employer uncovered plenty before he accepted the offer of employment extended some years ago. The absent father and the mother unwilling to deal with a genius son. No one understood Jim's mind and how it was wired to be brilliant and high-functioning. No one understood why from the day he was five, he wanted to continue stabbing the neighbor's puppy with a garden shovel. He told the two psychologists and three psychiatrists that his brain told him to do it because it would make him happy.

They came up with six different prescriptions to feed him, requesting permission for further testing. The mother decided not to deal and ignored the brutal act her child committed. Age eight and a female classmate accused Jim of breaking her arm on the playground on purpose, laughing after he did it. A year later and a boy attending the same school died at the public pool. One person knew what happened to Carl Powers, but even not knowing the darker truths, the mom still didn't see why her son couldn't think like normal people. Again, the mother decided not to deal, the absent father was absent, and a young Jim found joy in hurting others.

Another year on and he was locked away in a mental institution for five years by his mother. Her disturbed son informed he would slice her from ear to ear if she dared look at him like he was anything less than human again. It was in this place he decided to formally lend aid to others in situations where they had a problem and he could fix it. Problems such as little Carl who liked to laugh at others. He fixed that and he could fix more things with a bit of financing and a cover to keep his past private.

Sebastian was no fool. He knew Moriarty allowed him to find his past and it was a peculiar thing. Jim placed his trust in the man he'd chosen to recruit as his personal bodyguard and right hand. If his past was any indication, Jim never trusted anyone. Perhaps it was his consistent competency and ability to anticipate Jim's needs that made him a valued asset of his employer. A raised voice tuned him back in to the ongoing conversation.

"You planned it? You knew about this, Mycroft? The CIA man and you took care of John's plan to protect the CEO target and had him put on the armored vest prior to the event."

"These people have names, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out.

"Irrelevant."

"Sherlock..." John began.

"I do find it relevant you are irritated with me, John, for pretending to be dead and for being less than truthful. Yet I have uncovered a disturbingly high number of lies or half-truths told by you to me in the last week. You don't get to do this."

"Don't get to- Sherlock! I can't even imagine how you've reasoned this in your deluded mind-"

Sebastian tuned out. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson having another tiff was not something he needed to hear. The pair should get over themselves and admit how clearly into each other they were. Some love-affirming sex would do the two of them a lot of good.

His eyes went to Jim again as he positioned behind his employer along the far wall of the room. When he wasn't on a mission, his job was to shadow the man. Moriarty didn't feel he required constant supervision and protection but Sebastian didn't agree. Sure, taking out the spider instead of destroying the web first, might allow said web to dissolve into chaos. However, it was easier to kill one man over an entire criminal network. So protecting Jim was what he spent much of his employment doing.

Time in the army had proven he was good at many things he tried. Doing whatever it took to get the job done, killing and torturing even in opposition of initial orders, wasn't what his superiors wanted. He got them results and he got dishonorably discharged for it.

He knew the difference between right and wrong, but he also understood if he didn't do the job, innocent people could die for nothing. During his time in the army and his time working freelance, he'd murdered and stolen and tortured. Did these acts make him a bad man? He didn't feel like a bad man. He did all of those things in the line of duty, to accomplish something.

Who was he fooling? Somewhere during the period he began working under James Moriarty, he'd become a very bad man so an insane man could feel good by distracting himself with human puppets. Sherlock Holmes was the first who managed to be seen as a worthy opponent that could be fun as well. He toyed with the older Holmes before, too, but found the highly intellectual government asset to be a bore. Where one of the Holmes' was involved, however, there was another man never too far.

John Watson was the first to get Sebastian's attention along with the attention of his fluctuating employer's extensive brain. Yes, Watson had gotten his attention on more than one occasion. He was special because he was the only one Sebastian had ever seen bring out the young Jim who still bothered trying to find his soul.

He had been able to bring out the Moriarty on his good days, when he opted to do drab things like watching telly or spending the day in a shop or park, instead of planning another brilliant scheme or petty criminal acts to go with it. The fact he wanted to see more of this Jim had to mean something for his own conscience, right? That he wasn't too far gone to come back from the edge of darkness Moriarty brought him to.

"I wanted to be a part of something where I made a difference, where I meant something." John, attempting to appeal to his friend for his actions of recent months.

"You did make a difference and you meant everything." Sherlock, sounding earnest. "You still do, even if you don't see it."

"Don't you mean observe?"

Sherlock laughed, a rumble that was deep and very much fake. The fighting started up again. Another minute and the consulting detective of the trio stormed out of the bathroom. Briefly his gaze flickered over Moriarty's comfortable state on the couch, then to Sebastian's own less than comfortable standing position in the shadows of the room. The younger Holmes held his gaze downward and left the house, drawing a cigarette out of his trouser pocket. The detective consultant didn't bother to grab his long coat, which informed the professional hire he was distracted.

A couple of beats passed and the cop and the land lady moved to go outside and join Sherlock. They'd become all but forgotten to him over the last ten minutes. He shifted his stance from left to right, no longer invested in remaining still. Sebastian wandered to one of the armchairs across from the bathroom door and sat. Mycroft and John were merely staring at each other in absolute silence.

When the talking began again, the voices spoke softly, but he heard every word anyway. He knew Jim could as well.

"Don't give me that look," uttered John.

Silence followed until John spoke to fill it. "I can't get things to go back to the way they were. I can't. Sherlock's the same. Sherlock's always the same. And, well, he's right. I'm angry. I'm angry because I don't forgive him and he knows I don't. We know all this and I'm still angry. Why can't things be back the way they were?"

Further quiet, but the other man did respond. "The minute we love, the world has something to use against us."

The disappointment was evident in John's voice. "Oh, much help, thanks."

"I will be taking over your work, John. MI6 and I are cooperating to locate Myra Jones and Dominic Parker. It appears they have fled the country in an effort to salvage what remains of their project. There's nothing more you can do here."

Mycroft Holmes swept out of the house, not unlike his younger sibling, leaving John in his miserable wet state. Alone, vulnerable, and weak. And they left him with two known criminals. He supposed they hadn't gone far.

"The professor would let me keep going."

Sebastian glanced toward the bathroom. John was muttering.

"He'd agree with me when I've gotten so close. Such bullshit..."

Hmm... Yes. Watson did interest him. Moriarty was peering with obvious interest of his own. His gaze was toward the room where John continued to sit, now silent. Why was this seemingly insignificant doctor able to draw his boss in?