Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did I would never leave my bedroom.

There seems to be some confusion over when this story ends... I don't know if I'm unknowingly hinting that each chapter is the end, but I do not mean to imply so at all :D Basically, when the story is over, I will put 'The End' at the bottom of the chapter. Until then, we're still going strong ;)

Apologies for the wait, I've had lots of coursework and the like to do. Hopefully most of you can relate to that...

Warning: Contains whumpy stuff - drug abuse, violence, bad language, etc.

"You know, Mr. John Watson? I don't like you. I don't like you at - all."

John cracked his eyes open, colours and shapes wavering furiously before his gaze. His whole body felt leaden, hung with iron weights, too heavy to even consider moving. He tried lifting his head and was rewarded with a flash of agony. He heard himself groan, saw a shadow move across his vision. The floor seemed to be steadily tilting, rocking, threatening to send him falling straight into space. He closed his hands over the surface beneath them - soft, thready - in an attempt to ground himself, tried to widen his eyes. He felt sick.

"Know why? Because you're so, sooo boring. You're so normal. You think you're special, because he likes your flattery, he likes your attention. But you're not. You're a mosquito, leeching off his success. You're so... I mean, just LOOK!"

He flinched at that last word, not because he was scared, but because it was bellowed into his ear. The world seemed to explode, and then cram back together into a tight ball of pain. He sucked in a breath, which felt like the hardest thing he had ever done and appeared to take around ten minutes to complete. He tried to open his eyes once more, but they had clamped shut. His jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth hurt; no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not relax it. The hot, oily prickle of sweat on his forehead prickled insistently.

He swallowed hard, took another breath, squinted into the haze before him. He realized his head had dropped onto his chest. He knew he had to figure out what was happening, he had to come back to earth, because something horrible was about to happen to him. But his brain was so slow, and his blood was roaring in his ears, and he could feel unconsciousness tugging at him with insistent, skeletal fingers...

That's an order, Solider! Get on with it, for god's sake!

The words rang through his head, as clear and loud as if they had been spoken for real. All at once he was back in Afghanistan, his first day, on his knees in the dirt and scrabbling to pick up his pack. He was holding up his whole team, his nerves getting the better of him, the heat of the sun beating down on the back of his neck as he turned his face away from their exasperated glances. In just a few minutes a bomb was going to explode, and he would be binding the stump that had once been a leg belonging to a man next to him. John dug his fingers into the material below him and let a shuddering grunt scuttle through his clenched teeth. He forced his eyelashes apart, hauled his head up, felt his body shaking with the exertion of moving. He found himself face to face with a man with black combed hair, wide staring eyes and a crazed grin. A red tongue slid out and ran over those thin lips, as if tasting the air, snake-like.

"Just look at you... You're not special. You're pathetic. You're NOTHING. He could do so - much - bet - ter."

"Nmmhhtaay."

John had tried to speak his name, but somewhere between this throat and his lips the word had fallen apart. Moriarty's smirk grew wide and he reached out to put a hand against John's face, pushing his head backwards. John caught his breath, tried to lift his arm, but he could barely even shift. He was on his armchair, he realized. Not restrained, not tied up, simply slumped in it like a corpse. Moriarty was gazing dreamily into his eyes, his lips curving upwards. His crisp white shirt glared stark against his dark navy suit; his bright scarlet tie was red as blood against them. A perfectly folded handkerchief sat neatly in his breast pocket.

"You feel it? You feel it sliding through your veins? I made this, I had this prepared specially for him. It's a nice little cocktail."

Whatever Moriarty was talking about, it was all flying straight over John's head. He wanted to shake off that disgusting contact with his face, but all he could manage was a short twitch. Even that sent the whole world spinning and brought a heavy wave of nausea crashing down on him. By the time John had fought himself back under control, Moriarty had let him go and risen to his feet. He was wandering around the room, inspecting some of the objects lying about it, reading some of the papers. Even his eyes on the flat seemed to leave stains. He crossed to the mantelpiece, cocked his head, and then reached for the skull. His fingers brushed its smooth dome, and John's heart jerked in his chest.

"Mmnh... Hey!"

He finally managed to complete a word, slurred and gruff as it was. Moriarty turned his head to look at him, the corner of his mouth twitching higher as he stroked the skull.

"What? Hit a nerve?"

"Tha... s'Sher... ok's."

Moriarty let out a high-pitched giggle. "Mmh-hhm, thought so. He was so much faster. He mastered it in minutes, and I gave him a double dose."

Large, dark dots were throbbing in John's vision. His skin was crawling around his bones, rippling, stinging. He turned his eyes away from Moriarty, trying his best to return to reality, and noticed Agent Williams sitting on the sofa. Her gun was out, held loosely in one hand. Her eyes were fixed on John. So that was why there were no chains, no ropes. Moriarty had his own guard dog waiting for his command. The feeling of sickness and pain surged back once more and for a few seconds the black dots won. John's head surged with vertigo.

"Hello? Hell-llooo? DOG!"

Something hard collided with his face. John cried out in pain, almost fell from the chair as it came in again. His hand finally obeyed his orders and leaped up, batting helplessly at Moriarty's fist.

"Don't you ignore me, he used to do that, he used to ignore me, and I'd take it, but not from you. Not a pet like you."

Moriarty's breath beat hot against John's face. He tried to wriggle away, but as soon as he employed the use of his legs they caved in like rubber. He could taste blood, feel it on his upper lip. He brushed at his face with a shaking hand, then slowly felt the back of his head. Blood, sticky and half congealed, matting in his hair. After a long few moments of confusion he realized what that meant, and the ugly word 'concussion' jumped into his head. He squinted against the pain, saw Moriarty wiping at a spot of blood on his cuff, lip curled.

"W-Why?" John managed, the words grinding out between his clenched teeth. He couldn't relax his jaw. "Why're you..."

"We must have some secrets," Moriarty replied loftily, his gaze wandering across the walls. "This is between Sherlock and I, it barely concerns you... you're just the pound of flesh..."

A soft ringing suddenly filled the room. John recognized the sound of his own phone before he saw it in Moriarty's hand. He felt his stomach lurch in panic as Moriarty lifted the device, then grinned and put it to his ear.

"You know, I was wondering why it was taking so long. Didn't you get my texts?"

Moriarty's voice had turned low and sweet as honey, and even in his drugged state John could tell exactly who the consulting criminal was currently cooing down the phone to. Sherlock. No. He struggled to rise again but without warning pain exploded behind his eyes and he sank downwards, close to retching, unable to hold back a moan. He heard the floorboards creak as Moriarty moved towards him, his chuckle slithering through the air.

"Oh no, no, we're just fine. He's right here... Oh, come on, what kind of arch nemesis do you think I am?"

Moriarty strode off into the kitchen, and John heard the soft bangs of opening and closing drawers. His teeth gritting together harshly, he clutched the arms of his chair and tried to heave himself upwards; again, his legs gave out and his head screamed with agony. He fell back in his armchair, gasping, sweat sending chilling shudders through his limbs. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that they began to ache.

"You're not getting off that easy... we'll be waiting for you, right here, and when you come home the games can begin. Oh, and Sherlock?" The chair creaked as Moriarty sat down on one arm. An icy, metal edge grazed John's temple, sending a thrill of fear down his spine. "If you ruin it again, if you go calling for help... The only trace you'll be able to find of your pet will be his eyes. I'll know if you try anything... Got eyes everywhere..."

John didn't even notice Moriarty hang up. He only stopped trying to scramble away when Moriarty's hand came down to grip his head, fingers tangling in his bloody hair, and the pressure of the metal thing increased on his cheek. John snapped his eyes open, found Moriarty leaning down over him, a spoon held delicately between his fingers. Moriarty traced John's eye with the spoon, pressed it against his lid a little. John's heart jolted in pure terror, picturing that spoon spearing into his skull and forcing out his eyeball, imaged the pain, the blood, the horror of holding his own eyes in his hands...

"Sherlock's just around the corner," Moriarty murmured, tapping the spoon against John's forehead. "You just do as you're told, Johnny-boy. If you cause me trouble..."

He didn't have to finish. John couldn't breathe, couldn't move, every sense fixed on the spoon that was trailing small circles beside his eye. His skin was breaking out in gooseflesh, his pulse throbbing violently in his neck. He felt like a rabbit caught up in the teeth of a wolf, just waiting for that moment when the jaws snapped closed and the lights went out... Minutes stretched by, and John didn't dare speak, and Moriarty didn't leave. All John wanted was for Sherlock to come striding through that door, firing deductions and ultimatums everywhere, and somehow miraculously save the day.

And then he remembered the haunted, hollow stare in Sherlock's face that night they had sat up on the sofa and talked, and suddenly realized that all he wanted was for Sherlock to go straight back to the police station and never look back. Don't be an idiot, his bedraggled mind managed to think. Don't, Sherlock, please... Surely Sherlock wouldn't be foolish enough to come back to the flat alone. He wouldn't, not after everything he'd been through. He would accept help, just this once...

"Shall I?" Moriarty said softly, his words shattering John's thoughts. "You wouldn't miss just one, would you? Like a souvenir, for both of us. Hmm?"

"Nuh, ple..."

John's voice had stopped working again. He could feel droplets of sweat rolling down his spine, down the back of his neck. Moriarty's face split into a massive, white-toothed grin.

"What was that?" he breathed, pressing the spoon into the corner of John's eye. John's whole body jerked in a violent flinch; one hand made a wild grab for Moriarty's sleeve before he could stop it.

"Was that you begging, John Watson?"

John shut his eyes, felt Moriarty's fingers move down to tug at his eyelids. He shook off John's clawing, shaking hands like flies, tilted the spoon-

"Bad time?"

Moriarty paused, and then suddenly vanished from John's side. John felt his whole body sag with exhausted relief, his limbs trembling and numb, the phantom touch of the spoon still lingering against his face. His heart was thundering so hard that he was sure it would burst, sure that the earth was going to swallow him up, sure that the stress and the fear were going to burn him into ashes. He looked up, struggling to focus, half praying that the voice he had heard had simply been a trick of the wind, a creak somewhere in the house, half knowing what he would see. He could make out a tall, lean, dark shape standing in the doorway of the living room. Spidery, pale fingers were pulling at a navy cashmere scarf, tossing it over the arm of the sofa. Unruly, glossy curls of dark brown hair shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight shafting through the windows. John took a long blink, desperate to see his face, desperate to be certain beyond all doubt...

Sherlock's lips were moving, but John could hear nothing over the blood pounding in his ears. And then that angular face turned and those piercing green eyes fixed on John's. In the beat that followed, John saw a thousand things in that face that any other person would miss - the marginal widening of the eyes, the slight twitch of the lips, the barely noticeable drawing together of the eyebrows. John watched as Sherlock drank in every detail and came to a single, definite conclusion - Not good. Extremely not good.

I'm alright, John wanted to say, but now he couldn't even move his lips. The encounter with Moriarty and his spoon had drained him. The many dark spots had returned and were swarming at the edges of his vision, but he managed to blink them away, dug his fingers into his armchair in an effort to remain conscious. He couldn't faint now, not now that Sherlock was here. Sherlock had to feel supported, had to know it was all going to be alright... He watched through a hazy mist of pain as Sherlock crossed the room to the desk, glancing at Agent Williams as he went. Moriarty was leaning on the mantlepiece, flicking the spoon between his fingers, a smirk playing over his lips.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked brightly, as if showing Sherlock a painting he had just done at school.

Sherlock's eyes traveled over the room, flickered towards John, then turned on Moriarty. "I think that this is unbelievably arrogant, even for you," he said, his voice calm and measured, betraying no hint of fear. "If you're going to ransom my friends, at least make an effort to hide them. Don't just sit and wait for me to get home."

"Who said anything about ransom?"

"What then? Another of your games?"

"What else?" Morairty spread his hands. "Let's just think, shall we? What's different, what's changed about the great Sherlock Holmes? I am your biggest fan, you know."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a fraction. His gaze shifted briefly to John, moved over him. The corner of his mouth twitched in the shadow of a smile. If John didn't know better, he would say that Sherlock was trying to comfort him. "Changed?"

Sherlock began to move back around the room, his movements slow, his hands deep in his pockets. Moving towards him, John realized. Trying to get a closer look, see if he was alright. Moriarty stood like an iceberg between them, his smile suddenly vanishing. "When I had you, Sherlock, in that factory, I was playing by the rules. You and I, sparring, a game of chess. And then all of a sudden, you call in the police. You go running to daddy. My Sherlock - the Sherlock - would never have done that."

"Are you complaining because I lived?"

"I'm complaining because you LIED!"

John froze. Moriarty's voice had taken on that terrifying, insane edge. He gripped the spoon tightly in his fist.

"You lied," he repeated coldly. "You're supposed to be inventive, opportunistic, intelligent. And yeah, at the time I had a ball. But afterwards... well, I was just disappointed. You were pathetic, you were scared and you were predictable. And that can't be allowed to go on, Sherlock, it can't."

He clicked his fingers. Agent Williams rose to her feet, her gun swinging around to aim between Sherlock's eyes as he reached the sofa. He stopped, arching an eyebrow. John let out a muffled exclamation and his limbs seemed to remember some of their original functions; with a burst of energy, he gripped the arms of his chair and threw himself forwards. For a second he managed to stand on his own two feet. Then his legs crumbled and he hit the ground, spears of blinding white agony shooting through his head. He could dimly hear Moriarty's high-pitched laugh. He lifted his head to find that Sherlock had taken a step towards him, his pale eyes fixed on John. John tried to smile at him.

It's okay, he thought, hoping Sherlock would be able to read the words in his face. I'm fine, don't worry. Just go, please, don't start playing his games...

"You see? You see?" Moriarty was crying, somewhere on the line between disgust and glee. "Just look at you! Look at all this! It has to stop!"

He reached out, took the gun from Agent Williams, and flicked it between his fingers. He waited until he had Sherlock's attention again, his lips skewing into a grin.

"So. Sooo... I'm going to give you a choice. A nice simple choice. Option number one!" he trained the gun on John, his voice drawling as if he was hosting a game show. "You shoot your lovely little pet in the head, and you transform back into the exciting, one-and-only arch enemy I've been waiting my whole life for. Everything goes back to normal. You remain the best that you could ever be. Oooooor, option number two..." He swiveled around, letting the gun fall, his voice turning low. "... You take this lovely, pretty gun, you put the barrel in your mouth, and you squeeze the trigger. Because if I can't have you, Sherlock, nobody can."

Sherlock held his gaze, his face a mask of stone. John had forgotten how to think, how to breathe. His hands clenched into tight fists, his heart stuttered in panic. He didn't know what he wanted to say. Either way they turned, something in John Watson was going to die today, whether it was his mind or his heart. With a surge of effort, he dragged himself up to his knees and crouched there, blinking through the fog before his eyes.

"And because this is boring," Moriarty continued, his voice bright once more, "I'll shoot both of you if you don't make a choice in the next two minutes... So... tick tock..."

He began to click his tongue repetitively, counting down the seconds. Sherlock looked at John, his pale green eyes flickering. He stood framed against the sunlight streaming through the window, one hand still deep in his pocket, not a single line betraying a thought on his face.

"Fine," he said suddenly, and John's heart leaped into his throat. Sherlock held out his hand, fingers spread. "Let's get on with it, then."

Moriarty smirked, shook his head, scolding. "Oh, come on, now. Don't insult me. I'll be the one doing the shooting around here. I might let you pull the trigger, but the gun stays in my hand."

Sherlock remained motionless for a few seconds, and then slowly lowered his hand. Silence stretched across the room. John tried to catch his eye, but this time Sherlock was pointedly not looking at him. Don't be upset, John thought sluggishly, swallowing a gasp of air. When he tells Moriarty to shoot you, don't be upset... you can't blame him... he'll do the right thing. Sherlock wasn't moving, his face dark, unreadable. Between them, Moriarty was beginning to fidget, his grin fading.

"For god's sake!" he cried eventually, gesturing wildly with the gun as he spoke. John flinched every time it pointed in his direction. "There's no hesitation, don't you get it? It's so easy! What is there to think about? What?"

He turned on his heel, stormed over to John. John pulled away, misjudged his own sense of balance, and keeled over to one side; before he could hit the ground, Moriarty had seized him by the collar and was ramming the gun against his forehead, his face contorted with rage. Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

"This? This?" Moriarty was shrieking. "You're going to give it all up for this? Who are you, because you, you flawed, stupid, ignorant little bug, cannot possibly be Sherlock Holmes!"

"I'm ignorant?" Sherlock said softly. "I'm not the one who's come all the way here to ask a question I already know the answer to."

"I don't believe you."

Moriarty let John go. John sank to the floor, managed to catch himself before he completed a face plant. He lifted his head to see Agent Williams moving towards the door, her brow slightly furrowed, to see Moriarty and Sherlock locked on to one another like heat seeking missiles. Moriarty's lips were parted, his eyes wide. Sherlock... Sherlock was silent. Impenetrable. He stood beside the sofa, tall and steady as a mountain, watching. And then Moriarty uttered an inhuman snarl and his knuckles on the gun turned white.

"That's it, then, isn't is?" he growled, his black eyes boring into Sherlock's face. "That's the end."

Sherlock simply stared back at him. The hand in his pocket twitched slightly. Behind them, Agent Williams was leaning out of the door into the hallway.

"Sir? Mr. Moriarty?"

And then, all at once, everything exploded. John didn't even know that it was possible to cram so much movement between one moment and the next, but somehow it happened. Moriarty's face was carved with thunder as he glared at Sherlock, one eyebrow twitching violently. Then his gun was flying upwards and his finger was jumping on the trigger. Behind them at the door there was a loud crash and a volley of shouting and gunshots; Agent Williams tumbled back against the sofa as dark-clad figures burst into the room. The air was suddenly full of rifles and harsh yells.

John barely registered their entrance; as soon as Moriarty's shoulders had pulled together, as soon as his lips had tightened, John had seen the bullet coming. Every fiber in his body roared into overdrive and his legs lashed out with more power than he even knew they had. Before he knew it he was throwing himself towards his silent, still flatmate, his broken ribs stopping him from diving for safety, his only movement a slight widening of the eyes. The gunshot cracked the air like electricity as John crossed the distance between them, as his hand came into contact with Sherlock's chest. His head protested with a violent stab of agony and a flash of white obscured his vision.

The world seemed to blink out of existence. There was too much noise, too much motion, all fuzzy and just out of sight. John felt rooted to the floor, his breath stuck fast in his throat. Too late. Too late. Why, why, why had he been so slow? Why hadn't he been at Sherlock's side the moment Moriarty had let go? God, why hadn't he done something? Sherlock's body, although on the mend, was too weak to cope with a gunshot wound now. Every medical instinct was whispering to John that he had screwed it all up for the last time. This time, Sherlock wasn't going to be able to claw his way back on pure determination.

John tried to shake himself out off the horrified, stunned trance he had dropped into, tried to open his mouth to call for an ambulance. He could hear a muffled shouting. The people who had come into the room. Moriarty. He, John, would be next. Maybe there was no chance, no time left at all, but there was no way he would give up on Sherlock now. He had to try for god's sake... He tried to force him vision back into place, trying to regain control of his body, which only seemed to be spiraling further away with every second. And then he realized that he could feel the hard wooden floor against his knees. Even though he couldn't remember kneeling down. The ground jerked abruptly, and he felt himself sway. His eyes finally began to work again, and he caught a glimpse of the floor, and of something bright, bright red spilling all over it...

Wait...

Hands closed about his shoulders as he fell backwards, a puppet cut from its strings. The arms faltered a little but pulled him into their warm cocoon, wrapped tightly around him. God, he could feel the pain now. He could feel it hurling itself through his veins with every beat of his heart, feel his whole chest burn with it. He'd forgotten just how much it hurt. He became aware of a distant voice calling his name, a voice that seemed so very far away.

"John... John... Dear god, John, don't... just... John, come on..."

Oh, he knew that voice. Faster, higher, louder than he was used to, but still that same voice. Cool fingers passed across his face, tapped his cheek gently. The body hunched around him shuddered ever so slightly, and that horrible pain was momentarily blotted out with concern. Was this what Sherlock sounded like when he was scared? With a mammoth effort, John cracked his eyes open - he couldn't remember closing them - and found Sherlock hanging over him, those green eyes wide and wild, the corner of his mouth twitching madly.

"John, John, look at me." Sherlock's words were fast and clipped, strangely different from the smooth, relaxed flow of his usual conversation. "Keep your eyes fixed on mine. You're going to be alright, there's already an ambulance on its way. John, can you hear me?"

John tried to reply. He tried to tell Sherlock that he was looking at him, and that yes, of course he could hear him, but instead as soon as he took a deeper breath pain stormed through his chest and something hot and coppery forced itself into his throat. He was coughing before he could stop himself. He choked as blood sprayed from his lips, gasped helplessly as agony blazed through him like a bonfire, consuming all trace of logical thought. He could hear some strange, strangled sound, and hazily understood that it was coming from his own mouth. He could hear Sherlock too, his voice so very faint now, his long hand clenched on John's arm. John felt his body lose the energy to cough any more, swallowed hard, tasted more blood. His body was giving up. He had nothing left to fight with. His sodden shirt was sticking to his chest as blood soaked through it. He couldn't feel his legs, let alone hope to move them...

But Sherlock was still right there, right beside him, calling for him, his voice climbing higher as fear began to make cracks in that familiar marble mask. John tried to open his eyes again, saw a glimmer of light, a flash of green. And then there were more voices, more hands on him, and Sherlock was being torn away... His voice seemed to grow louder. He was shouting, John realized. He was scared. He was panicking. John found himself imagining Sherlock crouched on his chair just a few days ago, rocking, kneading his forehead, trembling as he struggled to overcome a panic attack... The image sparked up enough energy for him to speak, his voice hoarse and rough.

"S'okay, Sher'ock... S'gonna be okay..."

He could barely hear his own words. He was punished for his efforts fast enough - before he could draw breath to speak again the rasping coughs were back, and his whole body was on fire, and the pain was so bad that it seemed to swallow up everything else in its vastness, and the dark was coming, coming so quickly...

Next chapter up soonish... Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.

Reviews are welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.