First off I'd like to say I am so so so so so sos oosososooso sorry that this has taken me so long to update. I've been very very busy of late. After my dad passed everything sort of went downhill and I haven't really been able to get back to my fics and then I got caught up in tumblr rp (captainjhw, I'm a dark!John, if anyone cares to know) and it's been INSANE and I promise I'm going to get back to updating. So, here to tide you over until the next stage of this story is done is… DUN DUNDADA! An update! It's sort of brief, but please enjoy!

The Visage of War

Chapter Five

I shall return what was stolen from you.

John pulled himself out of bed after Sherlock fell (blessedly) asleep and picked up his old phone, tapping lightly at the screen to bring it to life. He stepped out of his bedroom and looked at the time on the screen. It was well past three in the morning, but somehow he knew Jim would answer. Part of him felt like he knew Jim's behavior a little too well. He was probably expecting John's call, the bastard... He went into the living room and sat down on his chair with a heavy 'fwump', and began scrolling through his contacts to the number he needed. He stared at the contact name lit up on the screen with his thumb hovering above the touch screen, just waiting. Waiting for a voice of reason to tell him to stop, for Sherlock to wake up, for his sanity to return to him. It didn't happen. Instead he tapped the call button and lifted the device to his ear and listened as it rang out three times before a sickly sweet voice answered. Jim sounded as if he'd been woken, but he also didn't seem unhappy about that fact.

"John, darling. What is it?" Jim's sleep crackled voice filtered through the phone and John's breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure what to say and found himself spacing out for just a moment, his mind sinking into something between a memory and a daydream for a split second. The image of Jim curled up in bed, wearing his red satin pyjamas, hair tousled, jaw covered in overnight stubble came to mind and John's heart seized in his chest, leaving him feeling a little choked and a little breathless.

"I... How... How are you?" John found himself asking in a rather awkward and weary manner, not sure why he was really asking. It was the only thing that came to mind at the time. He was still reeling from the fact that he'd been able to call the other man at all. And he was still wondering why, quietly, in the back of his mind, a small voice begged the question, 'Why John?', but John ignored it in favor of listening in as Jim laughed quietly. It was a soft and nasal sound that made John's skin prickle with goosebumps, the nerves under his skin seeming to recall every time that same laugh had been uttered behind his ear or against his lips or under his chin.

"Not gonna ask what I'm wearing?" Jim teased, his tone a long, drawling, Irish sonnet in John's ears. "I'm sleepy, Johnny... What is it?"

There was a familiar Moriarty-esque impatience in the end of that sentence and it struck fear down John's spine like a hot knife as part of him came back to reality. He was on the phone with a psychopath. A psychopath who had used experimental drugs and therapy to train him and brainwash him into loving him and-

John took a deep and steadying breath, and it only shuddered right back out of him. He could hear Jim sniffing pointedly on the other end of the line, as if to hurry John along. He had called for a reason, though not likely the one Jim was expecting. Then again, Jim was quite clever, John couldn't be sure. He knew, however, that he needed to get it out and over with before he lost his nerve.

"I will... Jim... Jim I have something you can do for me... If you do this favor for me. I'll do one reasonable favor for you," John stammered through pursed lips as his fingers steadied against the arm of the sofa on which he sat. His pulse was racing and his heart hammered hard against his ribs as he heard Jim's coo of interest in response. Again, John was lost in a moment in his mind. If he closed his eyes he could have pictured it perfectly. Jim's head would slowly, fluidly, swivel to one side, his lips pouting to form an 'o' as he made that sound... That interested sound. John knew it well and it used to strike excitement into his veins, but now it was slightly unnerving.

"Oooh... John this sounds lovely. What is it? Need me to make someone disappear? Want me to kill an ex-girlfriend?" Jim's voice was smooth like honey, he was being intentionally juvenile, and John could tell. He didn't immediately answer Jim, just held his breath for a moment, his fingers curling into a fist against the arm of the couch.

"I don't want you to kill anyone. I want you... to get Kate back... From Moran. Irene Adler's... lover... She's being held hostage by your man and I want her returned." John tried his best to sound firm but his voice was thin. He was good at being a soldier usually, good at giving orders, being harsh and militant, but he was scared of Jim for many reasons. And talking to him for any extended period of time made him backslide and feel like he did when under the influence of those drugs. He wished quietly, that he couldn't remember any of it. But then again no. If he couldn't remember there was a very good chance Jim would be tempted to take more drastic measures.

"Hmm... Could be a challenge... Moran has fallen rather far off the grid... But I always know just where to find him when I need to," Jim drew out his syllables in a contemplative tone and then sighed as if a bit bored. "All right Johnny. But in return..."

John's throat bobbed with a tight and uncomfortable swallow. Jim could ask for a number of things and John would have to say no to most of them. He didn't particularly want to back out of anything so quickly so early. Not when he could possibly help Irene out in some way. He felt a bit in her debt after all.

"You have to come see Le boheme with me... It's in town and I looooove the opera..."

John exhaled sharply in relief. That was easy enough. He wasn't the biggest fan of opera but if he could get through a date to the ballet with some of the most annoying women he'd ever wanted to shag, one night at the opera with Jim couldn't possibly be too much worse, right? That was a rather low, achievable price.

"All right, Jim. The opera it is."

Jim chuckled indulgently, as if he were enjoying hearing John's resigned tone of voice when he answered.

"All right, fantastic. I'll buy tickets."

John let out a long and quiet sigh, feeling almost exhausted from this phone call alone. He would have to really steel himself for extended time with Jim face to face. But he kept his eyes on the prize. It would be worth it if he could save this woman.

"Okay..." he muttered in defeat, listening for a while as Jim simply breathed on the other end of the line. They sat there in silence and after a few minutes John started to wonder if Jim had fallen asleep. But that wasn't the case. A strange whimpering moan from the other end made John jump.

"Jim?"

"Johnny...?"

"What are you doing?"

"What are you wearing?"

John wrinkled his nose and fought with the weird arousal that tugged at his groin as Jim moaned again, this time exaggeratedly loud. Jim was likely having him on, and would be laughing himself into a fit in moments. John could recall other times he'd done this and it gave him oddly mixed feelings about the whole situation. After a harsh swallow he found his voice.

"I'm hanging up." John said sharply, hearing Jim laugh on the other end as he pulled the phone away from his face and disconnected the call.