Two weeks had passed since John returned to 221B. Sherlock came back after three days, just as Mycroft said he would, and he and John had been reacquainting themselves. Much to his surprise, John found that it was harder than he expected. Although he was glad to see John back, Sherlock had gotten used to doing whatever he wanted whenever he wanted again. Their first crime scene together was incredibly awkward as they tried to find their natural rhythm once more. Apparently, Molly had been a proper substitute during John's absence, and she had appeared unannounced at the scene only to find John already there. After a few awkward words, they tried to work together, but John kept accidentally cutting in front of Molly, and Molly consistently answered Sherlock's questions before John.

Before they left the crime scene, Molly bashfully muttered that she was glad John was back and that now that she knew, she would only come when asked. John thanked her for understanding and explained that Sherlock would text her if he was working at the clinic when something happened. Although he supposed it would be nice to have a reprieve while at work, it felt strange to share Sherlock with someone else, and he wasn't entirely sure he liked it. He had secretly hoped that everything would just go back to the way it was before, no matter how illogical that was. Perhaps it would over time, but right now he had to adapt to the changes that were bound to occur after a month of absence. Sherlock was slowly reducing the amount of experiments in the flat, making sure there was a clear spot for John to eat breakfast and enough room in the fridge for food. And John appreciated it since it was Sherlock's way of trying to make him feel at home again.

Trekking down the stairs, John rubbed his eyes and yawned. It was one of his first days off from the clinic – John had thrown himself back in it as soon as possible in hopes that it would distract him – and Sherlock was sitting in front of his microscope, examining something closely. Honestly, John was just grateful that he hadn't played his violin the whole night like he had done two days ago.

"Would you like an omelette for breakfast?" John offered as he opened the refrigerator. Sherlock didn't respond, so John repeated, "Sherlock, do you want an omelette or not?"

Blinking, Sherlock looked up for a second. "Hm? What? Oh, no." He looked back down at his microscope, and John said nothing as he grabbed the egg carton out of the fridge. Suddenly, he heard a somewhat forced, "Thank you, though, for the offer."

John smiled at the attempt. Sherlock still wasn't used to thanking him, but he had been making an effort to do it more often once John returned. "You're welcome." He cracked open a couple of eggs in the skillet and went to fetch the milk.

Quickly, Sherlock shifted some of his experiments over to clear a spot at the table for John. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Fine. Why? Was I screaming last night?" John inquired. Normally, John didn't wake up during one of his nightmares or night terrors, and if Sherlock was staying up all night, he would hear John screaming. The next morning, he always asked how John was feeling.

"No," Sherlock murmured softly. "You haven't in a while."

Shrugging, John responded, "That's good to know." He carefully flipped the omelette before saying, "I missed this, believe it or not. You doing all of your crazy experiments. Taking up the whole house. Although I'm not sure it's necessary to fill the vegetable drawer with fingers and toes."

Sherlock smirked. "Since when did my experiments ever seem necessary to you? I assure you, however, they are of the utmost importance. Far more important, I dare say, than your carrots and celery. Your diet has changed since returning."

"I learned how to cook while I was away." That's always how they referred to it. John had been "away" for a month. Although everyone knew where he had been, no one except Mycroft asked outright how his time with Moriarty was. "I see your appetite hasn't changed."

"Transport," Sherlock responded dismissively. John lowered the heat on the stove as he grinned. Yes, thisis exactly what he had been missing. As he grabbed the ham out of the fridge, he heard Sherlock softly say, "You didn't do what I told you to."

John was startled and confused by the sudden statement. "What do you mean?"

"You let him get to you," Sherlock responded. Their eyes met, and John could see a certain sadness in Sherlock's gaze.

It took John a moment before he realised just who Sherlock was talking about. Immediately, guilt rushed through his body. Sherlock knew. "I-I don't kn-" he started to lie.

"When I first arrived home, you were wearing a jumper despite the warm weather. When you craned your head a bit, I could see bruises on your skin. But they weren't bruises from any torture object. No. They were teeth marks. Judging by the shape and size of what I could see, they were likely Moriarty's. He wasn't trying to hurt you at the time, given away by the fact that he didn't break the skin even though he could have. Also, there were no defensive wounds on you despite the fact that there were marks that showed the use of restraints. Also, there was a lack of restraints around your ankles. So only your hands were tied down, and you didn't fight it at all, which means that you were a willing participant," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. He broke eye contact with John. "I know enough about sex to deduce what happened between you two."

John's heart stopped. "Sherlock," he started to say, feeling awful. He should have known better. Of course this would affect Sherlock. How had he ever let James convince him otherwise? "I'm sorry."

If Sherlock heard his apology, he didn't acknowledge it. It could be because he didn't know how to react to it. After all, John had slept with his archenemy. A simple "sorry" wouldn't be enough for this. "You had sex with James Moriarty. The question is why. Especially for a man who declared himself 'not gay' more times than I care to remember."

John turned to the skillet again. The eggs were ruined, and he chucked them into the bin. "It's complicated," he responded, rubbing the back of his neck. By now, he was more than a bit defensive.

"You're distressed," Sherlock stated, examining him closely. John raised an eyebrow. "Rubbing the back of your neck. It's a common movement for when someone is upset. Trying to fix that 'pain in your neck.' Why would you be distressed?" He stared at John for a long moment before his eyes widened in surprise. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh, I see. I thought that it was strictly physical. I mean, you're a very sexual man. It's only natural that you would still feel that drive. Moriarty would have been available, and he was clearly more than willing. So you two had sex. It would have been something that you would have been ashamed of, but not defensive about. You would have been able to explain it as the human condition and the natural desire for sex. But when I looked at you for an explanation, you became distressed. That's because it's sentimental."

"Sherlock, stop!" John warned, glaring at him.

"Or what?" Sherlock challenged. John could tell he was troubled despite how much Sherlock tried to hide it. "It's fine that you became sentimental about it. From what I know, it is natural for sexual experiences to bring two people closer." John pressed his lips together in distaste. "But that isn't the case at all. What you're feeling isn't real, John." Rising to his feet, Sherlock hovered over John and murmured, "You're suffering from Stockholm Syndrome."

All the air went out of John's lungs. He felt like he had been punched in this gut. Those two words rang through his mind as he processed them. "No," he objected, shaking his head. "Sher-Sherlock, that's not-"

"He deprived you of human contact and then showed you the affection you, as a normal human being, needed," Sherlock declared.

Shaking his head, John snapped back, "I had contact with Sebastian Moran!"

Surprised, Sherlock took a step back and re-evaluated him. "Who?"

"James Moriarty's right-hand man. The only man who has contact with Moriarty himself. He came over a couple of times and hung out with me," John explained, feeling rather victorious.

"You told Mycroft that you didn't meet that employee."

"No. He inferred that I didn't meet Moran from what I implied," John countered, realising that he had just revealed he hadn't been entirely truthful.

"You lied for that spider?" Sherlock inquired, clearly baffled. "If that isn't a tell for Stockholm Syndrome, John, I don't know what is!"

John hated this already. He hated this conversation – that Sherlock could see right through him. He hated that he had ever gotten involved with James Moriarty. He hated that he missed James. He hated that he had ever accepted Moriarty's deal to begin with. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He was trapped and struggling to find a way out. "I had other contact. I met Moran several times during my stay-"

"Captivity," Sherlock corrected.

"-my stay with James Moriarty," John snapped back.

"And how much time passed before you met Moran?" Sherlock interrogated. John shook his head and looked away. Already, he knew that he didn't want to answer that question. "How long, John?"

"I don't know," John responded haughtily. "A couple weeks, I suppose. I stopped counting after a while."

"And were you attached to Moriarty before you met Moran?" Sherlock pressed.

John supposed he was, but he didn't want to verbally admit it. "Sherlock, I was a soldier. I was trained in counter-torture techniques by being tortured. I also received training in identifying and counteracting Stockholm Syndrome."

"Yes, which is only useful when you are looking out for it," Sherlock replied. "Were you?"

Scowling, John merely set his jaw. He had not been searching for the symptoms within himself. In fact, the thought had never even occurred to him. But he couldn't accept this. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that his feelings for James Moriarty were all fake, not when they felt so real. Not when he felt so alone some mornings when he woke to find no one next to him. "I'm going out to eat," he finally said.

"John," Sherlock responded, cutting him off as he headed towards the door. "There's nothing to be ashamed about. Stockholm Syndrome is a legitimate psychological disease. It doesn't make you weak. He just played you because he knew your basic necessity for human contact. He deprived you of it, and then he suddenly decided to stay with you for long periods of time. Don't you see? He was only pretending to be your gracious saviour." Pausing, Sherlock swooped down to catch John's gaze. Pity. John could see it in his eyes. He was being pitied by Sherlock Holmes, of all people. Immediately, John despised the look. "He's a clever man, John, and he figured out how to get to you. How to make you bend to his will. Honestly, I don't know why I expected for you to be able to outsmart him. You're hardly in his league of intellect, after all."

John felt pained as he heard this. Moriarty was just playing him? He didn't like that thought at all, and he didn't want to believe that it was true. Not after everything they had done together. Roughly, he shoved Sherlock out of the way. "I'm going for a walk," he repeated. "And don't follow me!"

For the last three days, John had been doing nothing but mulling over what Sherlock had said. Stockholm Syndrome. Those words put an icy, sick feeling in his stomach. Swallowing hard, he shook his head again. To say that it bothered him was understatement. His feelings weren't real despite how they felt. John would have sworn he was in love with James Moriarty. To say that it was all due to Stockholm Syndrome just seemed impossible. Not when he had lost sleep over it. Not when he had ridiculed himself again and again about his feelings. Not when he fought so desperately against those very feelings and denounced them himself for so long. It just seemed impossible that they stemmed from Stockholm Syndrome.

Sherlock was thinking about a case, playing the violin to occupy is time, and John found that he was a bit restless. There was nothing he could do to help, and he knew that Sherlock would message him when he finally solved the case. He decided eating out didn't sound so bad. Angelo's sounded even better. "I'm going to Angelo's to get something to eat," John said. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock would hear him. Even so, he had said something, so he didn't feel bad as he headed down the stairs and out onto the street. Flagging down a taxi, he slid in and said, "Angelo's Diner. 1158 High Road."

He cupped his face in his hands and closed his eyes as he felt the cab pull away. Since returning, John had yet to truly settle back into 221B. Everything had just been chaotic, and he felt like he was scrambling to keep up. No matter how much he scrambled, though, he couldn't do it. Mycroft had been calling him repeatedly, asking more clarifying questions about John's stay and what he knew about Moriarty's web. Sherlock and he had been doing a silent dance around one another, trying to find their balance from before. Sometimes, John wondered if things would ever return to the way they were before.

"You alright there, Johnny-boy?" a familiar voice called out.

John's head snapped up as he heard the familiar voice. Eyes narrowed, he shifted over and looked into the rear-view mirror. Although he could only see dark eyes staring back at him, he would know James Moriarty anywhere. "James," he breathed out, his heart ramming in his chest. He rebuked himself for having such a sentimental reaction.

The light turned green, and James's attention turned back to the road. "Surprise! I couldn't very well meet you any other way, not with the Ice Man keeping tabs on you. This was the only solution." There was a moment of silence. "You don't seem very happy to see me, Johnny," he noticed, sounding disappointed.

"I have yet to find out what the occasion is," John responded guardedly as he glanced outside.

James chuckled under his breath. "I'm not here to kidnap you, if that's what you think. I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Yes," James responded as he turned left. "You're in danger."

This piqued John's interest immediately. "What do you mean?" he pressed, leaning forward.

"I've been keeping an eye on the Ice Man and the other clowns who run the British government," James informed him. "He's been keeping his masters at bay, but he can only hold them off for so long. They're getting restless. They think you know something that you're not telling them. That you're protecting me. Right now, Mr Holmes is trying to convince them that there's no need to act since you told him everything you knew. But his masters are meeting behind closed doors. They're talking about taking you in for questioning."

John knew what that meant. Although he knew that he shouldn't be, he was mildly surprised by the drastic measures. He forgot too often that Moriarty was a wanted man. That people would pay millions to have his head on a silver platter. "Consider me warned."

There was a long moment of silence that passed between them before James suddenly inquired, "What's wrong? You have been remarkably indifferent since seeing me. I didn't think our time together was that awful."

"Sherlock thinks I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome," John blurted out. He blinked in surprise when he realised what he had just confessed, and his heart leapt to his throat.

James seemed shocked as well. "Why would he think something as ridiculous as that?"

"Because I basically lied to Mycroft," John confessed. He saw no need to hide such information from James. After all, he would have just worked it out of John sooner or later.

James asked, "Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I like Moran," John snapped back, not wanting to get into the other reasons. "I told Mycroft that you only had one employee who knew who you were and had contact with you. He wanted to know who, and so I implied that I didn't know who it was."

James remained silent for a long moment. "And Sherlock found out," he finally murmured. After turning again, he murmured, "What do you think, John?"

"I don't know what to think. I've been thinking about it for the last three days, and I can't make heads or tails of it. Because if it's true then what we had – whatever that was – well, it's all negated now, isn't it?" John responded, sounding a bit dejected despite himself.

Pausing a moment, James pressed, "I'm assuming that you were a bit stressed at the beginning of your confinement. It would only be natural, after all. But I did my damnedest to keep it from being traumatic. Was it?"

"No," John murmured, thinking back.

"Alright. Did you feel abused in any way, shape, or form while staying with me? Whether it was emotional, physical, or sexual."

John tried to remember any time he felt that way. Shaking his head, he responded, "No. You never once hurt me – and the only time you threatened me was when you and Mycroft were having your spat. And I had control over the sexual situation, because you refused to touch me until I made the first move."

"Did you feel that your only chance for survival was obedience to my every wish," James inquired.

Relaxing a bit more, John answered, "No. Not once. If I hadn't once touched you, you would have let me go unscathed by the end of my stay. I'm sure of it."

"Did you start changing your habits in order in hopes of deterring a violent reaction?"

John felt relief wash over him as James continued arguing his point. It wasn't Stockholm Syndrome. "No. I didn't worry at all about the consequences of my actions. I wasn't scared of you."

"Are you still worried then?" James pressed softly.

Laughing softly, John felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest. "No," he answered, grinning widely. "No. But I suppose that anyone experiencing Stockholm Syndrome would deny it, right?"

"But you didn't show any of the traditional symptoms, and you only had one of three traits needed for Stockholm Syndrome to occur," James pointed out before slowly coming to a stop outside Angelo's. "Breathe easy, Johnny, about that. You need to focus on your main problem, which is the Ice Man and his idiotic masters. No more lying. You honestly don't know anything, but if you continue to only give half-truths, they're never going to believe you. I wouldn't have let you know something that I feared Mycroft would find out about."

John leaned forward and murmured, "It was nice to see you again, James."

"I could say the same. Unfortunately, though, this will be the last time that we can meet. It's far too dangerous for us to continue to see each other. It will only confirm what Mr Holmes's masters believe to be the truth," James explained, restarting the meter. "No charge."

John nodded slightly before rubbing his eyes. Part of him wished that he and James had not seen each other this time. It had been hard enough parting the first time. Sucking in a deep breath, John replied, "Thank you for the warning. I will keep an eye out. And I'll try to tell Mycroft the truth before Sherlock talks to him first." He paused for a moment, wanting to ask for one last kiss, before shaking his head. He had gotten a proper goodbye last time. "Goodbye, James. And thanks again."

"No problem, Johnny-boy. It was good to see you again."

With that, John stepped out of the taxi and closed the door behind him. He could hear it drive away as he headed into Angelo's. Although it felt like a wound had just been reopened, he knew that he needed to focus as James had told him. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Mycroft. As soon as he answered, John said, "I have something to tell you. About Moriarty. Meet me at Angelo's as soon as possible. I'll be waiting." He ended the call before Mycroft could say anything and sat down at a table. Holding the mobile, he quietly traced his fingers over the keys, tracing out the number Moran had given him. Maybe he would need it after all.

Mycroft arrived thirty minutes later. Walking over, he sat down across from John. "What information do you have for me?"

"I lied to you earlier. I know Moriarty's right-hand man," John informed him before taking a bite of ravioli.

Mycroft was staring in a very Holmes-like way. His eyes widened only a touch as he leaned forward in interest. Apparently, Sherlock had not told him, and John was grateful for it. At the very least, it made John look better. "Why did you lie? And why are you telling me this now?"

"Sherlock suggested that I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome," John stated. He didn't feel as jittery now talking about it. After all, he knew the truth beyond a reasonable doubt. "But to be perfectly honest, it was because I liked the guy. I knew him a bit from my army days, and I enjoyed spending time with him. And he saved me from the bombing, so I supposed it had been my way of trying to repay him. But that's all beside the point now, isn't it?" John licked his lips as he looked back down at his plate and stabbed a couple more pieces. "His name is Sebastian Moran. From what I could tell, he works directly with Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully as John spoke. "How often did you see him?"

"Only a handful of times. We didn't talk about much, to be honest. Some reminiscing about our time in the army. He introduced me to video games so I would have something to do during my long days alone. Always brought beer, too, but I doubt that will help you with finding him."

For several long minutes, Mycroft remained completely quiet as he processed his information. He asked a few more clarifying questions: "Sebastian Moran was the one who saved you from the bombing?" "What video games did you two play?" "For what game station?" "What can you tell me about that second flat you lived in again?" John answered them all honestly and openly, no longer feeling restricted by unwritten rules about what he could and could not say. Finally, Mycroft nodded and remained quiet for another long moment. Suddenly, he said, "There's been a lot of pressure placed on me, John."

Confused, John responded, "I'm sorry? I should have told you about this sooner, but-"

"Not just about you," Mycroft stated. "Moriarty… He's become erratic and unpredictable. In the last week alone, he's ruined an election and overthrown a government."

John shrugged and shook his head. "What am I supposed to do about it? I have no way to contact him and tell him to stop. And even if I did, I doubt that he would listen to me."

"No, but it makes me wonder what happened between you two," Mycroft stated.

Immediately, John's heart began to race again. Sherlock already knew, yes, but that was different than Mycroft. There was no doubt that the British government would have a field day if they found out how intimate James and John had been. "What do you mean?"

"You were gone for exactly a month. In that time, Moriarty's activities decreased immensely. The only major thing we can link him back to for sure was the destruction of a Russian faction who were causing a bit of a ruckus, although there's only speculation as to why that happened. In these last two weeks, though, he's wreaked more havoc than he has ever before," Mycroft continued.

John pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I served as a distraction, Mycroft. Does that really surprise you? He had Sherlock Holmes's best friend all to himself for a month. Of course he was going to try to take time to pick my brain a bit. He found it amusing. Found me amusing. He liked to mess with my head. Now he doesn't have that. What did you think he would do? Twiddle his thumbs?"

Making a sour face, Mycroft shook his head. "No. I suppose not." With that, he rose to his feet. "Thank you for the information. I'll contact you if need be." John nodded in acknowledgement as he took another bite. "Enjoy your meal, John."

John waved goodbye and turned back to his food. Mycroft gave no indication that he was being pressured to bring John in, but now knowing that Moriarty was raising Hell, it was hardly surprising. But maybe this would get John off the hook. He figured it would be a blessing if he never had to talk about James Moriarty again. Somehow, he had a feeling that that wasn't about to happen any time soon.