Sherlock was sitting in his black leather chair, fingers steepled under his chin when John burst into the living room at 3am. John's eyes were glassy from both the drug and the ordeal. He soon collapsed in a heap on the floor - panting, gasping, clutching at his chest. He was experiencing a panic attack. He'd had them a couple of times when he'd served in the war. But this was worse. Much worse.

Sherlock's intelligent eyes clouded over in concern and he stood up, walking elegantly over to John's side and kneeling down, not speaking a word, but instead placing his pale hand on his friend's shoulder. He could deduce exactly what had happened, and yet he didn't know who had done this to John. Who would do this?

"M- Moriarty… he…" John gasped, as if answering Sherlock's train of thought. His eyes were watering, his chest heaving. He was still in immense pain, as if Moriarty was still inside him, torturing him continuously despite the fact it was all over.

"John… John! It's alright now," Sherlock muttered frantically, gripping at his flatmate's arm, his eyes alert. A pained expression crossed his face and anger began to bubble up behind the surface of his calm, collected mask. Bringing his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock dialled Lestrade who soon answered in a sleepy tone.

"Oi, Sherlock. What on earth is going on? It's three in the morning…"

"I need you to get here immediately. No questions. Just. Get. Here. Now."

He hung up then followed with a call to Mycroft. Except his brother didn't answer. Sherlock would have to make do with the answering machine.

"If you get this, Mycroft, put extra surveillance on 221B… Don't ask questions. Just do it."

Sherlock put down the phone and when Lestrade arrived looking hassled half an hour later, Sherlock stood up from by John's side and ran over to the Detective Inspector abruptly. "Look after John. At least until the late morning. And for God's sake, don't let him out of your sight. Do you hear me?" He'd never felt so protective in his life.

Lestrade was still rubbing at his tired eyes. "Bloody hell. Alright! Calm down."

"Sherlock, no!" John shouted. He seemed to have cottoned on. He knew Sherlock was leaving to find Moriarty. To find him on his own. "It's too dangerous. Don't. Don't go out there. Don't be so bloody stupid, you ignorant git! He wants you too! Don't you rea-"

But it was too late, Sherlock was out the front door and Lestrade was barring the way, pulling an exhausted and helpless John into the kitchen for a strong cup of tea and a serious conversation.

"It's Sherlock, he knows what he's doing, just trust 'im…" Lestrade had said, staring patiently into John's eyes while gripping his shoulders.

...

It was easy enough for Moriarty to find Sherlock. He'd expected the hot-headed detective to leave the flat in a fit of fierce anger. See, that was a weakness of Sherlock's – he always had to get what he wanted, even if he was risking his own life in the process. Oh how cute, how novel.

Sherlock hadn't argued, flapped or struggled when two of Moriarty's workers had dragged him into the back of the waiting car. No, instead he greeted them with a sardonic smirk and sat in the backseat, his expression becoming unreadable once again.

When they arrived, it was at a different motel. Not that Sherlock would have known or cared about locations at this point. He just wanted to see Moriarty. And luckily enough, the men met – this time, though, it was in an beautiful suite.

Jim was in the bathroom splashing on an expensive male perfume when Sherlock was shoved into the main part of the suite and he smiled when he heard the detective's grunt of annoyance.

He emerged in a new, clean Westwood suit, his arms outstretched in greeting.

"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… what a surprise. Well, actually no, I kinda expected you, honey. But still, it's a surprise to see you looking so good for me."

Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, his bright eyes dancing around the room as if looking for any hidden trouble-makers. It seemed there weren't any. The two men were alone. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal. Moriarty wanted him to himself, apparently.

"Your motive for hurting John," Sherlock said stiffly, "was to get at me, I presume? To entice me here? Don't worry, I am well aware of it."

"Clever boy. Ahead of the game as usual. And when I say gaaaame, I mean 'ordinary people.' You're always a step behind me."

Sherlock twitched in irritation, earning a smirk from Jim.

"Raping John is a weak, cowardly act, even for you," Sherlock snarled. "It reaches a new low. And trust me, if you wanted to assert your 'intellect', there were far better ways than simply throwing yourself on somebody."

Moriarty shook his head, amused. "Nooo, no no… I didn't just rape Johnny boy. He ended up enjoying it. I have the recordings if you want to hear later. But that's not why I brought you here, no… uh uh." He was still shaking his head slowly, a manic look in his eyes. He oscillated his head a little to the side, not unlike a reptile, then slowly walked towards an unmoving Sherlock. "I brought you here to rip you apart piece by piece… to watch you cry. To watch you scream and beg for mercy. Look at you. The virgin. Oh…" A psycho laugh erupted from his throat while the taller man stood still, his lips curling down in a mixture of confusion and anger. There must be something else.

"Ah, I see what you're thinking about," Moriarty went on in his deep Irish drawl, "You think there must be more to this than just me harming you… because you could harm me back. You could kill me right now. But know this - I have a bomb implanted underneath your flat. It was put there while you were out and John was with me." He chuckled darkly. "It will blow the place apart, Sherlock, if you try anything now. It will blow John apart. And that silver fox of a detective inspector you've got round there tonight. Oh yes, and little Mrs Hudson. Oh, how adorable is she? But... if you behave yourself, they will all be fine... Just fine. Don't ever say I don't play fair."

Sherlock swallowed and turned his head away as Jim leaned in oppressively, breathing in the delicious scent of Sherlock's skin, his coat collar… his hair.

"I've wanted this for so long," Moriarty hissed, his voice strained with want. He clapped his hands together, a hidden blade falling out of his sleeve and into his grip. It was all a millisecond too quick for Sherlock, who now felt a painful slash of metal across his face, sending him reeling backwards. That, he did not expect.

"Let's begin…" Moriarty whispered.