Before going to talk to Moriarty, the boys had to go to the other crime scene. The woman was face down, unlike the first one. Her neck, where it was visible, was a deep purple. The scarf that was used to choke her was still wrapped around her throat. The body had been found next to a dock in the sand.

After assessing the body, Sherlock told them the body had been moved to this spot.

"She had shoes when she died." Pause. "She died in grass, not sand."

"There's sand over there," Lestrade pointed but Sherlock didn't even look up.

"The grass is too long, the grass between her toes is much longer. Not mowed recently." He rose from the body and looked at John.

"The body's been dead for as long the other woman." John said softly and Sherlock nodded. After letting Lestrade know they were leaving, the boys went back to the apartment to find Moriarty gazing out a window.

Moriarty had been watching the news, they knew, since it was softly playing. John felt Moriarty's eyes upon him so he left the room under the pretense that he was going to get lunch. Sherlock strode towards him and Moriarty let the curtain fall as he pivoted to face Sherlock.

"You're being framed."

"I know."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes aflame with anger towards the man. Knowing he would put John and himself in danger for this man only to have him turn around and say he knew the whole time was just short of asking to be thrown out the window.

"I don't know." Moriarty said, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's. He could read the anger, the desire to harm, boiling inside the man.

Sherlock was suddenly torn. He'd been sure Moriarty was up to one of his tricks once more but he could see the man wasn't lying about not knowing. Unless Moriarty had found a way to lie without being noticed. Which was possible but Sherlock didn't want to dwell on that possibility.

He went to the kitchen without another word. John had already made himself a quick lunch and was eating. Sherlock sat at the table with him, looking fully irate. It didn't take a genius to understand that Moriarty was the reason behind the irateness.

John finished his breakfast and cleaned the dishes. Sherlock still hadn't moved from his spot so John didn't leave the kitchen, waiting to see if the man would have something to say. After a few moments, Moriarty came in and seemed shocked at seeing he two flatmates just waiting in silence.

He asked if he could make something for food and John said it would be fine. Since Moriarty was now in the kitchen, John left and went to the living room. Being in his own home was difficult, considering there was a murderer who had aimed for him this morning.

Later in the evening, Sherlock and John were on the couch, talking about the murders. Moriarty was in the bathroom, supposedly taking a shower. It had only been a few minutes after five in the afternoon when Sherlock's phone rang.

He looked at it and frowned. John knew the man well enough to know it was his brother, Mycroft. As he took the call, John wandered to his room. When he got to his door, he saw Moriarty rounding the corner of the hallway. Determined to not show any weakness to the man who, honestly, probably knew how John felt every second, John broke eye contact and entered his room.

The door closed and he walked to his closet where he pulled out his night clothes. Just as he turned to put them onto his bed, his door opened. for a moment, he expected Sherlock, which is why he couldn't stop his surprised jump.

"I didn't think you were... uh.. you" John said, putting his clothes down. He acted like nothing was out of place as he turned back around, closing the closet doors. It was very uncomfortable to have his back to the crazed psycho, but he wanted as little for him to go on as possible.

"That's all right." Moriarty said calmly, closing the door quietly. He leaned against it, his eyes locked on John.

John felt watched, in a horrible way. The eyes looking at him reminded him of Sherlock. They were hard, calculating, and unforgiving. They saw the world in bits and pieces to be put together and easily got bored. The only difference was that Sherlock kept himself busy finding murderers where Moriarty kept himself busy being a murderer.

He knew, as well, that if it came between him and Moriarty, John wouldn't have a chance. Moriarty was smarter than he, and much more violent than Sherlock. With Moriarty, John didn't have to worry about a head in the fridge or if he is adding drugged sugar into his tea. No, with Moriarty he'd be checking the food and drink for poison, he'd jump every time a knock sounded through the apartment. He'd be so high on anxiety that his heart would give out.

If Sherlock every felt that he was alone in the world, he'd just have to remember that Moriarty didn't have anyone. He wasn't nice enough in any aspect, not saying Sherlock was easy to live with, but he had not a single person willing to help keep him alive without being threatened.

John suddenly realized exactly what he'd do for Sherlock.

Realizing this, he straightened his spine fully and glued his eyes to Moriarty's. Seeing the change, the psycho looked a bit taken back, but he held his ground.

"Sherlock and I aren't going to break. He knows I'm loyal to him and I'd do anything to keep him safe. I don't agree with him keeping you here but he does everything for a reason." Moriarty looked bored, suddenly, and John felt a spike of anger shoot up his spine. "You will not put him in harm!" John stomped forward, the memory of watching Sherlock fall to his death surged and he felt his fists ball.

"I would never," Moriarty said calmly, his eyes darting to John's fists and then back up. John couldn't tell if the man was worried, impressed, or still bored.

"Your blatant lie is not unexpected." John spat, relaxing his fists only to ball them up again when Moriarty smiled. Nothing good ever came from that smile.

"I'm not lying, Dr. Watson. I won't harm Sherlock while I stay here. He is doing me a favor, helping me out of a jam. Or pickle, mind you." The man smiled, taking a step forward. John stiffened, expecting a fight. "I swear to you, since Sherlock feels the need to keep his adorable pet close, that I am not killing these women."

John frowned, his fists relaxing a bit but he stayed on guard. "Women? There's only been two." Moriarty rolled his eyes, a thing John learned to take from Sherlock as he was missing an obvious clue.

"Why else would Mycroft be calling Sherlock? They're not exactly the best of brothers."

John felt a realization slip through him. There must have been more murders. And he was in his room with Mycroft, threatening the man, when Sherlock was out having, as he would say, all the fun.

Moriarty looked stunned as John suddenly moved forward, closer to him, in order to remove himself from the room. too quick, John found himself within arms reach of Moriarty and was grabbed. More forcefully grabbed than previously. John was surprised enough to try and step back but Moriarty went with, using his momentum to keep going backwards. John's hear rate spiked, his arms grabbing Moriarty's upper arms and trying to get the man to stop.

Right as John's legs hit the bed, Moriarty stopped. He smiled malevolent and said, in a low voice, "Sherlock is busy on the phone. He won't notice you've been gone too long for a few more seconds. Or minutes, perhaps." His smile stretched across his face and John felt blood leave his face.

Just as he was about to do whatever he had in mind, Moriarty let go suddenly and backed away. John wobbled a tiny fraction, more shocked at being let go than anything. He looked at Moriarty.

"If Sherlock figures out I'm trying to know why he is obsessed with you, he may not let me stay. And I need a place to hide out." His smile fell fully off his face and John nodded, leaving the room. Sherlock was still in the same place on the couch as before. As John sat, he hung up the phone.

"A girl was found dead. She had the back of her head smashed in. I told Lestrade to look for a second body."

"A second?"

"The first were the exact same time. I can only assume that means there are going to be two more."