"Why didn't you tell Lestrade?" John asked.

"He doesn't need to know. This is between Moriarty and I." John merely rolled his eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop Sherlock's fascination with the psychopath, but he couldn't say he liked it.

"So I guess we're just gonna have to sit tight and wait for him to kill another innocent person, are we?" There was a hint or sarcasm in John's voice.

"No-one is completely innocent, John."

John stopped walking with an exasperated sigh. "Does it really not affect you at all? That people are dying and you're doing nothing about it, just so you can get your kicks by outsmarting the police?"

"There's nothing I can do. Believe me, if I could prevent the next murders I would, but I can't do anything, not yet."

"No. No I don't believe you. You could do something but you don't want to. You want to play his bloody game!"

"We've been through this John, caring about people's lives won't help me save them."

"No, maybe not, but just sitting and waiting and not at least trying to prevent the next murder isn't right." John punctuated the last two syllables with his fist and stood glaring into Sherlock's eyes before walking again. Sherlock sighed before walking after John.

"What do you want me to do, John? If I knew how to stop Moriarty, I would have already."

He clenched and unclenched his jaw and sighed. "I don't know Sherlock. I really don't."

The next murder came the next day. This time a woman but of the same age as Derek Harvard and similarly found in a hotel, her death apparently with the same cause. Again, Sherlock recognized the victim; her name was Johanna Smith.

"What where the room numbers of the two victims?" Sherlock asked Lestrade at the second crime scene.

"Twelve and Thirty Three. Why?"

A grim look came over Sherlock's face momentarily before he regained his composure. "No reason." He said distractedly before leaving. This time John hadn't come with him, saying he "wanted no part in Moriarty's games." Sherlock hadn't bothered arguing with him.

"Anything new?" John asked, lowering his newspaper as Sherlock walked into the flat, throwing his coat and scarf onto the sofa.

"The room numbers."

"Room numbers? What?"

"When I was seventeen, I left home. Not permanently, but I had stayed at a few hotels. The same hotels and room numbers that the two victims were found in. I passed the first off as a coincidence, but it happening twice? No that's not chance. Somehow, Moriarty must know about my childhood." There was a strange tone to Sherlock's voice as he spoke. Perhaps anxiety? No. John mentally shook himself. Sherlock didn't get anxious.

"Well that's not disconcerting at all." He said.

Sherlock picked up a packet of nicotine patches from the kitchen table and sat down heavily on the sofa, opening the packet. John silently watched him from behind his paper.

"Did you know the victim this time?" He asked after a while.

"Yes. Her name was Johanna Smith."

"Why is he doing this? Getting people you knew, what's he trying to do?"

"Showing me that he knows more about me than I thought perhaps." He rolled down his sleeve over the patches and lay back on the sofa, his hands under his chin. John didn't ask anymore questions, knowing not to disturb Sherlock when he was deep in thought. John didn't like the way Moriarty seemed to be able to know everything about Sherlock when he barely knew a thing. Despite living with the man for some time and solving crimes with him, he knew next to nothing about Sherlock's past. He frowned in thought, trying to accumulate all his knowledge on his flat mate. He knew he went to University, though which one and what he studied he couldn't say. He knew he had a bad relationship with his family, especially Mycroft, but again, he didn't know what had happened between them. He also knew that Sherlock had a history with drugs, but that was about his limit. It seemed wrong to pry on Sherlock's life, even though Sherlock himself had known all about John's time in the army and his sister's alcoholism after speaking to him for only a couple a minutes, though he supposed that was just Sherlock's way. He could guess someone's deepest secret by the way they walked, or by a stain on their sleeve.

John shook his head and resumed reading the paper.