A/N: I thank everyone who's hung in there with me for this, and you all get many many unicorn kisses for your strife. Revella has just approved this chapter for human eyes, so you may feast away on all the glorious hilarity with a teensy amount of angst thrown in.

John had waited. He had brooded. He had searched. He had combed the flat bare for evidence…of anything. He had met with Lestrade, and Mycroft, numerous times. He had worried himself into a deep sickness. He had screamed, railed…and cried, bitterly. Brokenly. He had sat with his laptop open, his blog pulled up, staring into the screen as if his previously catalogued adventures with Sherlock could work a kind of magic upon his soul. He had taken his gun out…often…staring at it with an unanswerable question in his eyes, his heart. But he always put it back. His hate for the man, Jim Moriarty, feeding him the will to close the drawer by his desk every night when he checked and rechecked it for function. He had become almost obsessive about…many things. And those who noticed, stayed clear. Lestrade knew in his heart that if they ever had the misfortune of capturing Moriarty alive that the problem would be solved by sixty seconds of being left in the vicinity of Captain John H. Watson. Not that he would ever consent to such a thing, the DI had to tell himself often.

Mrs. Hudson had made herself scarce around him lately. Everyone had. He was like a piece of strong, thin wire, pulled to the event horizon of his existence, mere moments away from snapping. No going back. His clinic work was nonexistent now, and Mycroft had surreptitiously picked up the flat's expenses. John pretended not to notice, and Mycroft pretended not to notice John not noticing. John was far too angry, uncivil, and raw at this point to function in the civilian world, the elder Homes had concluded. And so he took steps to help ensure that a modicum of stability was maintained amongst the doctor's newly evolved, almost-bipolar, personality. Today was no deviation from the newly established norm.

John got up, showered, ate, checked his laptop for any emails, clues, anything. Text Lestrade, no news. Text Mycroft, no news. And as for himself…no news. It was enough to drive the average man insane. But John wasn't an average man, in many respects, and so he slid from day to day, maintaining the focus and anger, always holding out hope for another clue, another piece of the puzzle…God help him, he even hoped for another crime to be committed just so they would have another opportunity through which to work in finding him. Finding Moriarty. Find Jim. It was often repeated in his head. Find Jim.

No milk today, he noted whilst blearily peering into the fridge. The corner of his mouth twitched as if to smile. It was almost nostalgic of Sherlock being there as he discovered its absence. But he didn't let himself go there. No. All he desired nowadays was to find Jim. And kill Jim. So he set his face firm against the rest of the world and all its absent milks as he grabbed his jacket off of the hook and started down the stairs. He'd gotten so used to Mrs. Hudson doing the shopping these last few weeks that he'd barely been out at all. This outing would probably be good for him.

He started down the stairs and stopped suddenly, seeing the body on the floor beside the base of the staircase. His hand clenched the rail for a second before he propelled himself down toward it. He came to the bottom and around, almost crashing sideways onto the floor, and knelt unsteadily next to the person, rolling them over. Mrs. Hudson! A quick vitals survey found her breathing to be unlabored, her skin color normal, and her pulse to be steady and regular. So, alive, just unconscious. His own heart beat rapidly. But even though she may appear fine to all outward signals, there was no telling what had put her into this… What the?!

His hands flew up to his neck as the wire pulled tight against his throat. A hand came up from behind and covered his gasping mouth with a cloth. He tried to buck the person off of him with minimal results. They were big, and his heart was beginning to pound in his ears. He scrabbled a few seconds more in vain against his attacker, but the blackness rushed up to him, and then he was falling…..

Jim held Sherlock to his chest tightly, his inner thighs in light contact with the outer portions of the detective's own as they sat there in the middle of the study floor. One man idly tapping away at a laptop, the other lost within himself as he contemplated the fact that up until now he could never abide the physical touch of another person. It nauseated him, filling him with an instant rage, the likes of which rivalled the PTSD of a quadriplegic veteran. Yet here, at this point in time, he sat with someone, his enemy, clutched against himself in a most intimate and soul-bearing manner. And all he felt was the quiet. His awareness…was silenced. Peaceful. And to the criminal's ever vigilant mind, the source of this enigma, clasped before Jim in a constricting embrace, seemed almost oblivious to the evil presence pressed against himself.

Sherlock was very aware of the shirtless, trouserless man pressed flush to his back. However, his skills at manipulating his countenance and accompanying actions were second to none. He continued on with his game of Pong, acting the superb part of playing "hard to get" and "I'm aloof and can't be bothered." It troubled him not at all to use his body as well as his mind in the game of mental subterfuge that they seemed to be constantly engaged in. Although, considering the criminal's actions tonight, he was becoming increasingly unsure of the man's motivations. Easily deduced in the beginning as Jim needing to conquer every aspect of the detective's life, now it seemed…complicated. As if the James had discovered something, recognized something important, and now was attempting to adjust his exact target, his endgame. Curious… But enough of that.

Jim found himself inexplicably relaxing ever deeper against the shoulders before him. Sherlock's silken dress shirt felt quite pleasant and cool against his own skin, still flushed with heat from the nightmare he had been granted freedom from. He lay his cheek alongside the back of the detective's neck, eyes closed and just breathing in the tranquility offered here…that is, until he was shortly thrown onto his back and roughly clambered over by Sherlock, who seemed in an awful hurry to get somewhere.

Feeling somewhat bewildered, and trampled, Jim lay there with his arms extended out over his head staring at the ceiling. Thankfully, carpeting was what his back had landed against instead of cold hardwood. His mind floated for second, deciding between anger or bemusement…and then he felt a hand clasp in his, which he reflexively closed his own around. And then, with a violent jerk, he was off, being dragged across the carpet and skidding along the hardwood just barely managing to twist and right himself, stumbling in the direction that the wild haired man was tugging him in. His bare feet slapped the floor as he attempted to reclaim his usual predatory grace, failing miserably in nothing but his pants. When did I lose my top? he asked himself, his mind staggering to keep up with the strangeness of the almost surreal situation.

Sherlock reached the hallway just ahead of Jim, pulling the nearly naked man after himself in an all-out dash. When he stopped suddenly, the criminal crashed into his back, and Sherlock turned to look at him as if he had forgotten whom he towed. His brow furrowed as he took in the appearance of James Moriarty: consulting criminal and most feared presence known to the civilized world…..in nothing but his pants.

"Do you always go running around starkers at night?" he asked as Jim reflexively brought his arms up, covering his chest.

"I…"

"Where's your gun?"

"Er…?"

"You have one. A Beretta. Where is it?"

"I had it…with me…" Jim turned around, looking back into the study. Sherlock looked over his head and spied it at the same time as the shorter man did. It lay on the carpet beside where they had been sitting, most probably having been dropped there by Jim when he had decided to curl himself around the detective. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sight of such an ordinary means being brought for dispatching him.

"Trite," he said as he strode back into the room, scooped the gun off of the floor, and returned to Jim's side, examining the weapon as he turned it in his hand. Jim opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Yes, well, it will do. Now, where can we shoot things?" And after a moment's hesitation, Jim replied.

"North Grand Reception Hall."

"Right," Sherlock nodded, lowering the gun to his side. "Where's that?"

"Um, can I…get some trousers on maybe?" Jim gestured downwards at his short, pale legs. And perhaps it was just the crisis of his earlier nightmare, or the lateness of the hour, but Sherlock noticed that Jim's accent was stronger at this time than it had ever been. This made the end of his sentence sound more like, "…get soom troosers on mebbe?" Odd. With an exaggerated sigh, the detective acquiesced.

"Yes, alright."

John woke with a pounding head to an unimpressive view of a concrete ceiling with little colonies of water marks here and there. A kaleidoscope of grays. His information processing came quicker the more awake he became. It wasn't cold, but neither was it very warm. He was lying on a very firm, one could almost say 'rock-hard,' mattress. He rubbed his eyes, wondering what Sherlock was playing at this time, when it all rushed back into his awareness. Sherlock: gone. Mrs. Hudson: unconscious. Then he looked around at his small, sparse accommodations, obviously meant as a prison. And he finished his mental assessment. Himself: screwed.

He pushed up to better view his surroundings. Well, better wasn't exactly what happened, but still. He stepped off from the 'bed' and walked to the door, feeling like an idiot when he checked to see if it was locked. Of course it was. Worst kidnapping ever, if not, he mused. He turned around, noting that there were no windows, one tiny vent in the ceiling, and nothing else much to occupy his sight. He looked back to the door. Hinges were well taken care of, no rust. No gap at the bottom of the door, and the knob was firmly set. He looked down at his feet, standing upon yet more concrete, and sighed. He walked back over to the little cot of what his back was telling him must be composed of bedrock and sat down facing the doorway. He hoped the wait wouldn't be too long.

Sssthuk! The last of the silenced gun's bullets went through the drywall above Jim's head where a small circle was drawn. It was perhaps an inch away from being dead center. The criminal smiled and brushed the dust from the wall off of his hair and off of the plain white t-shirt that had been the only thing Sherlock had allowed him time enough to pull on. He stepped away and looked back at the marksmanship, nodding approvingly as he did.

"See. Your grip was off. Large-handed individuals often have the problem you did," he drawled. "Practice a bit more, and you might actually worry me from a distance of more than fifteen feet some day." A soft chuckle followed after this statement. The detective frowned down at the gun in his hand.

"You're not that much better," came the somewhat childish retort as the taller man dumped the empty clip with a dissatisfied sneer on his face. Both he and Jim looked to the other circle drawn several inches higher. It was riddled with another clip's worth of holes, but this circle's holes were congregated around the center rather than simply being within the circumscribed purple magic marker. Jim turned away from the sight first.

"Yes, well…I wouldn't want to…frighten you, Sherlock."

"Frighten me. How…quaint," the detective smirked with a challenge in his eye. James looked on, and then nodded. He walked over to the taller man and stopped to reach out his hand. It trailed first down Sherlock's right bicep, then his forearm, finally reaching the hand with the weapon. He neatly plucked the gun from slender fingers and gestured with it towards their bullet-ridden wall.

"Alright…stand there again," Jim said with a lower than normal voice. Aroused by danger, the detective mentally tipped his hat to the other man, as he welcomed the same odd sort of foreplay.

The detective made his way over to the wall, thinking what a sight they must make. Himself in a mostly buttoned dress shirt, trousers and bare feet; Moriarty in a white undershirt and just his pants below; shooting at each other in a very fancy hall filled with tables, chandeliers, and a stage. As he reached the wall and placed his back against it, he eyed the criminal standing some thirty feet back. He had only allowed Jim to put on a shirt. In the back of his mind, he thought it wise to keep the other man as off-balance as possible, and tainting all of their encounters with a sexual tension seemed to do this just nicely. He needed to maintain the upper hand. He was beginning to think that, even though he obviously didn't have all of the data, something was very wrong about the rapport he and this madman were having. Though it felt right, right now, Sherlock felt as if there were some key component to his knowledge missing; and once replaced…he would no longer find himself in such amiable company.

Jim waved with his free hand to tell the detective to have his legs shoulder length apart. Then he held his arms out to the sides, cruciform, and the taller man mimicked him. Jim held up the free hand again and spread his fingers wide, and Sherlock answered by splaying his own out against the wall. Jim's eyes were sparkling with an inner darkness at this point as he snapped another clip in and raised his right arm slowly, the gun held with a cool professionalism in his grip. No support was offered by the left extremity, which Sherlock found somewhat discomfiting due to the potential recoil.

Jim's mind blazed with the knowledge that here he had his greatest enemy standing willingly before him as he sighted down the gun's length. It gave him a small shiver of satisfaction…and something else entirely…to think on this accomplishment. Truly, he felt as if he could continue this game, this problem, eternally if it continued to bring these feelings, these experiences, with it. He could feel himself go half-hard already and shifted his stance to accommodate it. His eyes were on the detective's own for a moment before drawing down fully once more. And he fired. Repeatedly.

To his credit, Sherlock winced only once during the entire thing. And when the muffled gunshots ceased, he turned his head to where he had felt most of the vibrations in the wall. And he stared in mute fascination at the holes beside, and in between, each of the fingers of his left hand. And then there were a few just beside where his neck met his shoulder. If he'd have flinched an inch higher… His attention was recaptured by a loud snick. His eyes raced back to Jim, who had just loaded another clip. Jim smiled winsomely…and passed the gun to his left hand... Sherlock remained frozen against the wall as the gun came up once more, the criminal sighted him down, and the shots rang out.

His eyes had scrunched closed, he was embarrassed to note, but as of yet, no pain had set in. So either Jim was a really lousy shot with his left, or…his eyes opened and turned to his right. And there, just as on his left, his right fingers were interspersed with evidence of bullet passages, as well as his neck now on this side. His face was flushed from adrenaline as he met the other man's eyes.

"Ambidexterity," Sherlock rumbled out eventually as Jim slowly ambled over, the gun cradled in his shirt as he polished at an imaginary spot along its length. He made a noise of assent, though, indicating that he was listening. The detective's arms had dropped to his sides, and he stood between the holes made on either side of his neck. When Jim looked up and saw this….he paused as a cat does when first spying a mouse, all intensity and taut musculature. Then he threw the gun to the side, where it clattered along the floor for a ways, and quickly stalked up into Sherlock's personal space.

Jim planted a hand on either side of the detective's shoulders, looking slightly up at the taller man. He leaned in almost as if doing a strange vertical push-up, bringing his face right into the pale jawline before him. And then he breathed in slowly before speaking, closing his eyes momentarily.

"I smell…fear…" he whispered. And he pushed back to stare up into those gray-green eyes with an unreadable look on his face.

"Is that what drywall smells like? How disturbing," was Sherlock's attempted distracting reply, and he reached between up them as if to brush at his shirt. But when he did this, he grabbed Jim's elbows in the bends and pulled down. Then he twisted them up and over, slamming the criminal into the wall, effectively reversing their positions and holding Jim by the wrists, keeping them over his head. The shorter man smiled lazily at this, as if watching a child's efforts at amusing an adult, and slid his arms down the wall slowly, unthreateningly, with the detective's grip steel-strong on him the entire time. The detective's mind raced. Sherlock hadn't really wanted to end up like this, but the little twat had been too smug. So, how to release him now without a big fuss?

The answer was a moot point as Jim swept a leg up and around into the back of Sherlock's knee, causing him to stumble minutely. But that was all the slack Jim needed. He forced his arms down, breaking the hold and pulling Sherlock forward, stepping around him. He grabbed the detective by the shoulders from behind as he came to a halt. Sherlock suddenly found his face and chest pressed into the wall's cool exterior next to a set of bullet holes, and Jim was behind him, against him, holding him firm by the forearms down by his waist.

Jim leaned in this time with a staged looked of obscenity and audibly breathed in the scent at the base of Sherlock's neck. Then he slid his face around to where his chin was just barely resting on the other man's shoulder and whispered to him.

"Naughty naughty, Sherlock. I really should teach…" he trailed off as he heard hurried footsteps approaching them, and his attention shifted. It would have to be something very bad for his men to have interrupted him at play. They knew better. So he released the not-really-struggling detective and turned just as two of his men walked briskly through one set of doors to the hall. He turned to bow mockingly at Sherlock, and then he glided over to the waiting agents.

"He's gone, sir. That is…John…the doctor, sir," the first one began to verbally stumble as Jim came within earshot. His eyes flashed, and the man continued. "Doctor Watson, sir. He was taken, from his flat this morning. Big mess with NSY and…others…involved, sir. They think it was you." Jim looked the man over carefully, considering his words before asking.

"Why, other than the obvious, should they think it was me?" And the men hesitated before the other one responded, reaching into his back pocket.

"They found this on the staircase," and the man held out his phone with a picture on it. And Jim's heart fell through the earth's crust when he saw it. There, bold and unmistakable, was the large, red insignia of the Moriarty clan spray-painted over and over along the stairway leading up to 221B Baker Street.