As promised, the door was fixed by the end of the day. John was released from confinement and left alone for the rest of the day. And the day after. Part of him was relieved for the reprieve. After all, he still needed to sort through all of his emotions and thoughts properly, and it was much better for him to be able to do that alone. He decided at the end of the full day alone that he would simply never say a word of it to anyone. How would James react to hearing such news anyway? He would probably either ridicule John or use it to his advantage. Either way, John wasn't about to find out. Once the month was over, he would assess the damage, fix his heart however needed, and move on with life. It wasn't truly a satisfactory solution, but he doubted that he and James would be intimate anytime soon due to their previous argument.

It was mid-afternoon when John heard a rapping on the door. He found it strange since James never knocked before entering. Then he heard a key in the lock, and he tensed up, glancing about for a weapon of any kind. The door swung open, and Moran stepped into the flat. "Watson," he greeted, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Moran," John responded, surprised to see him. Moriarty probably sent him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I thought I would pop in and check up on you. We haven't seen each other since that day, and I recall owing you a debt of sorts. So if there ever comes a time in which you need my services – and it is something plausible for me to do – you can count on me. I'll leave you my contact information before I go," he responded. Suddenly, he held up a case of beer. "Want one?"

"Oh, God, yes." Although he was far from the alcoholic that his sister had become, John hadn't had a beer in far too long. It would be nice to drink something other than milk, water, or juice for once. Since he had started requesting it, he never got beer no matter how many times he placed it on the grocery list. At one point, he almost wrote down scotch or whiskey in order to see if he got a different response. Perhaps Moriarty thought beer was too uncultured for someone to drink and, therefore, would not purchase it. In any case, it remained a mystery to John, who wound up giving up in the end.

Grinning, Moran shut the door behind him and set the case onto the counter. "Part of me wanted to see if you had even made it the night. I've never seen a person rebel against the boss like that and live to tell the tale."

"Well, I'm not the kind of man to just sit on command," John responded as Moran handed him a beer. "If I think something is morally wrong, I have no problem with calling it out."

Smirking, Moran cracked open his beer and commented, "I still remember the chewing out you were giving me on the field as you worked on me. Telling me what an idiot I was to be a sniper and still get shot. Explaining to me how I was going to get home no matter what, but I had to stop bleeding out first. Reassuring me that you wouldn't let me die out there if only because you were sworn not to. I never thought nearly dying would be so entertaining, you know. And that was right before… well… you know." He made a vague motion towards his upper torso, but John understood immediately.

"How is your chest, by the way?"

"Fine. I got a tiger tattooed over the scar so no one can see it anymore. Care to have a look?"

Shrugging, John responded, "Yeah. Why not?"

Moran set his drink down and pulled his shirt off. Snarling, the tiger stretched from his hipbone – where its tail ended – to his shoulder – where its claws appeared to dig into the flesh. Between the orange, black, and white of the tattoo, the scar was well-hidden. "Took quite some time to get it done, but I'm satisfied with the end product."

"Did it hurt?" John inquired.

"No. After you get shot, though, not much tends to hurt you too badly. You know?" Moran responded, giving a small shrug. He pulled his shirt back on and picked up his beer once more. "You have a tattoo, too, don't you?"

"Royal Army Medical Corps symbol," John responded, lowering the jumper so Moran could see the logo. It was located on the skin above his right deltoid muscle. "Hurt when I got it done, to be honest. I feel now, though, that I could get another one without complaining as much as I did back then."

Grinning, Moran took a swig of his beer. "So how has life been under the thumb of the great Moriarty?" he inquired teasingly. "Feel like you're back in the war again yet?"

"It seems to always be one battle after another with him, but at least there haven't been any bombings yet," John jested.

Moran laughed as he heard this. "'Yet' being the keyword in that sentence," he noted, leaning against the island. "He put you up in a nice place, though. Nicer than most of our hostages get."

"Well, he only gets me for a month before he has to return me alive. I'm sure the other hostages don't have such an ideal situation," John pointed out before taking a drink. He never remembered beer tasting so good before in his life. "God, that's great. Thank you for bringing it."

"Think of it as a peace offering," Moran responded. "I could tell that you were a bit on edge after everything that happened. Probably had a couple of nightmares, am I wrong?" John went rigid and started examining Moran critically. His nightmares had returned the first night after the incident but tapered off the second. In any case, he didn't want to talk about it to anyone, and especially not to someone who reported back to Moriarty. He wouldn't allow himself to be seen as weak. Sensing John's hesitance, Moran raised his hands and said, "It was merely an assumption, mate. I know what it used to be like for me is all. Thought maybe you would appreciate someone who understands."

"I appreciate your concern," John responded, his voice tight, "but it's unneeded. I'm perfectly fine."

Nodding, Moran replied, "Good to know."

Both of them took a drink, and the room remained awkwardly quiet for a long moment. In order to break the silence, John asked, "So how did you come to work for James Moriarty?"

"I don't believe I can really give you too many details. He would probably kill me if I did so. Let's just say – he approached me with a job opportunity, and I wasn't exactly in a position to turn him down. Came to realise that I enjoyed working for him for various reasons, I assure you, and now here I am."

"Standing in a kitchen with one of his hostages," John jestingly noted, lifting his beer. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Moran responded with a smile on his face. Both of them took another drink. "So how did you manage to get yourself into Moriarty's sights?"

"What do you mean?"

Shrugging, Moran replied nonchalantly, "I've just never seen him take such a shining to a hostage before. And then there is the fact that he has you, of all people, in his grasp… I mean… I know you well enough, Watson. You're dedicated and loyal – noteworthy to the people who know you, but not at all what you seem. I am sure that he realised this, and I thought there might be something being kept under wraps. That's all." He was trying to downplay the situation and his interest in it, that much John could see. But it was also obvious that he was curious – that there was something about this relationship that was different from normal.

Then again, John doubted that shagging a hostage was a normal situation. "Surely you know about my ties with Sherlock Holmes."

"I do."

"That's all there is to it, really. The only reason he ever felt the need to kidnap me was to throw it in the Holmes' faces. Other than that, I'm still regular, boring John Watson."

Laughing, Moran responded, "I assure you that James Moriarty would never take such an interest in an ordinary bloke. There has to be something."

"There's nothing." John's tone was sharp, much like the one he would use in the military. This wasn't up for discussion any longer. By no means was he going to let Moran know about what had conspired between James and himself.

Moran remained unfazed. "If you insist," he conceded after a moment's pause. "I suppose it isn't that important anyway. After all, if the boss wanted me to know about it then I would know." Rapping his fingers on the island, he looked over at John for another long moment, as if he was still trying to figure everything out. John stared at him defiantly, wanting nothing more than to convey that he would not be giving Moran any answers. Suddenly, Moran's eyes flickered, and he set his beer down. "How's your shoulder been?"

"All things considered? Fine," John responded curtly. He didn't like talking about his shoulder, but he knew this conversation was bound to come up. After all, he had been shot while trying to save Moran's life.

Moran shifted ever so slightly. "Does it act up at all? I know mine does every now and again."

"Sometimes."

"Still play rugby?" Moran inquired after a moment's pause.

"Not anymore. I can't throw like I used to. Can't take a good hit to that shoulder anymore either," John explained calmly. He had played recreationally while over in Afghanistan. Once, he and Moran had played together and made a rather formidable pair. It was the best game John had ever played in his life, to be perfectly honest, and he still thought back on it fondly.

"That's a shame."

Shrugging, John responded, "Not much I can do about it, though."

"Look, I've been making quite a bit of money. I thought – well, what with it being my fault and all, that maybe I could…"

"Stop," John demanded sharply, irritated. "I'm not looking for pity or for you to pay back a perceived debt. We both knew what we were getting into when we enlisted. We both knew that we might die out there. And guess what – we both survived. Maimed, yes, but we made it out of that Hell-hole." He realised then that he had his hands clenched and was standing rigid. Forcing himself to relax, he shook his head and continued softly, "It's not your fault I got shot. I've never once thought it was your fault I got shot. So stop trying to repay a debt that you don't owe!"

Moran remained silent for a long moment, staring at John as if he was trying to understand him. "Very well," he finally said before opening a second beer. "Want another?"

"Yes, please."

Handing John the beer he just opened, Moran reached into the carton and grabbed himself another one. "One of the first things I did after coming back was go to a pub to get a good pint of beer."

"Restaurant," John responded, smiling. "To remember what real food tasted like for once."

Letting out a groan, Moran complained, "God, the food over there was awful. Simply awful. I might miss a lot of things, but the food is most definitely not one of them."

"You know what I don't miss?" John prompted, hopping up onto the island. "Tommy Thornton. Were you ever subjected to that man?"

"Subjected to him?" Moran scoffed. "He was in my bloody brigade! The only bright side to being shot was the fact that I wouldn't have to deal with him anymore."

With that, John burst out laughing. Tommy Thornton had been a pain in everyone's arses. On good days, he would stay hunkered in his room. On bad days, he was out and about, determined to rain on everyone's parade, whether it be talking down someone's political views or going on and on about how hard his life was. "That's too rich!" he managed to say. "He used to talk all the time about how he was the best rugby player on his team back home. Hell, this bloke didn't even know half the rules for rugby. So I told him that he should play with us sometime, right? Well, then he started going on and on about how he doesn't really play anymore because it's not much fun for him. There was no challenge there, you see. And he had seen us play before, and – although he didn't want to hurt my feelings – he had to be perfectly honest and inform me that he was just too far out of our league to really want to play with us."

"He was always going on about how great he was. He claimed he was a better sniper than me once. Once," Moran emphasized before taking a swig of beer.

Eyes widening, John prompted, "No, that deserves a story. C'mon. Tell me. What did you do? It's not like you're going to be discharged for it anymore."

And thus, Moran told Watson about how he challenged Thornton to a sniping competition. He won 10-3, and Thornton never said another word about his sniping capabilities without that being thrown back into his face. After hearing this, John went into a story about the prankster of his brigade – Weldon was his name. One of his most notorious jokes was when an unsuspecting soldier would get his towel snatched up while taking a shower. Weldon's defence was always, "Well, if he isn't alert enough to notice someone stealing his towel then he doesn't deserve to have one." That particular prank stopped, however, when Weldon accidentally stole the wrong towel and upset a major instead of a second lieutenant. That prompted Moran to tell a story of his own about a prank, which he had pulled in his younger years on some of the other officer cadets. In the middle of the night, he slipped around and reset all of their clocks three hours ahead. All of their alarms went off, and each of them sprang out of bed, got dressed, made their bed, and remained standing for a good fifteen minutes before realising something was wrong. John was honestly surprised Moran walked away from that one alive.

And so, the stories went back and forth, one after another, as they sipped their beers. Ironically enough, it felt to John as if he was speaking to an old friend. Hours ticked by, and it was dinnertime before either of them even knew it. "Would you like something to eat?" he offered. "I'm a decent cook. At the very least, it will be better than anything we ate over there."

Just as Moran was about to answer, his mobile phone started ringing. John frowned, knowing that there was probably only one person who would be calling Moran around this time of night. Pulling up his phone, Moran stared at it for a moment. His face went expressionless, signalling to John that he had gotten an order that he needed to remain unknown. "Could you do me a favour, Watson?"

"Rain check?" John suggested.

"Yes, that. But I need you to have your rucksack packed tonight. Just in case."

At hearing this, John became worried. "What's going on?"

"As of yet, nothing," Moran responded, swinging around and grabbing his jacket. "It's merely a precaution." Without another word, he exited the flat and locked the door behind him. John was left standing in the kitchen, not knowing what just happened but having a bad feeling about it nonetheless. Immediately, he turned and headed into his bedroom. After all, he had some packing to do.

John had been tossing and turning most of the night, wondering when this "just in case" scenario might happen. Finally, he had relaxed enough to drift to sleep. And then he heard the front door burst open and his last name shouted out. Instinctively, he leapt from his bed and checked the clock. 2:28 AM. Before Moran even made it to the bedroom, John had his rucksack slung over his shoulder. Moran took it immediately, practically ripping it off as he shoved John out the door.

"Shoes-!" John started to object, wanting to put on the pair he left out.

"No time! Move!" Moran ordered with another shove.

Staggering out of the flat, John glanced back one last time before running down the hallway alongside Moran. They burst into the stairwell, flying down the five flights of stairs. All the while, Moran was yelling at John to move faster – don't have much time – need to get out – have to go. Heart in his throat, John reached the bottom step and bolted out the door. They sprinted across the lobby, John tailing Moran perfectly, and wound up knocking the doorman out of the way in the process.

John was just a step away from the street when a loud explosion filled his ears. He was promptly shoved to the ground by an invisible force, scraping his hands and cracking his knees into the ground. However, the pain didn't register as the adrenaline continued to pump through his system. His body was screaming at him to run, and yet he couldn't orient himself well enough to obey. Confused, he tried to process everything that happened. He let out a groan and happened to notice the time on his watch. 2:30 AM. Suddenly, two hands gripped the back of his T-shirt, and he was shoved into the back of a vehicle along with his rucksack. Glancing out the window, he looked up to see a large section of the hotel destroyed. Horror iced his blood. Two minutes. He had come two minutes away from dying. And yet there was still that unmistakeable high from surviving that rushed through him and made his body hum with energy. Quickly, Moran slid into the driver's seat and took off down the road.