A/N: Ah, thank God for Revella, or else y'all would have to get partial lobotomies to get this crap outta your skulls. Anyways, I've been at a conference in Nashville this week, so any other general crappiness is due to alcohol. So there.

Jim leaned back into the smooth leather of the car's bench seat. He knew why John had reacted the way he did, had counted on it even. And it amused him to watch it all play out before him. Shock. Jealousy. Disgust. Anger. Helplessness. Better than reality TV! Jim sighed as he eyed the ex-soldier across from him. Delicious. Nothing more achingly beautiful to watch than a person's whole world dying in front of him. Front row, too. And to know that he was the cause of this emotional diarrhea….bliss! He suppressed the urge to lick his fingers of the last crumbs of the doctor's heartache before denial took over and stole the show away.

Jim watched as John's gaze, previously aimed to the floor in shock that evolved into haunting despair, finally found its way back into the madman's field of vision. And now those murky blue eyes were hard, like bedrock forever frozen beneath an icy tundra. Resolved. Determined. Ah, he's figured out the game I'm playing. Check, ran behind Jim's eyes. He smiled across at the doctor beguilingly, inviting commentary. But the vehicle remained silent for now. Alright, thought Jim, let it stew a bit then. That kind of blow can't stay inside forever. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, completely at ease with having an enemy seated so nearby. Unless the good doctor desires ulcers and gas! His chuckle was mostly to himself, but it did slip out as partially audible.

John's eyes narrowed, and his hatred intensified. How could he hate this man any more than he already did? It seemed impossible to him…but then, many things concerning Sherlock and Jim Moriarty seemed impossible at the outset. He redirected his thoughts. How to approach this? His directness had netted him nothing but more of the criminal's "playfulness," such as it was. And his stomach rolled at the thought of further demonstrations of the reprehensible man's intellectual foreplay. So he remained silent as the sight figure before him leaned back and closed his eyes. His thoughts skimmed over all of the things he had gleaned from Jim's speech and actions so far. Not exactly a wealth of useful information, but it was all he had. But his thoughts kept revisiting one concern in particular. The only true concern of his, really. More so than his own wellbeing. Sherlock.

"Where?" John's lowered voiced drifted across to the almost-dozing criminal. Jim's eyes snapped open, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, though he tried to hide his true pleasure at the prospect of engaging once more with the man before him who was, literally, the only other possible competition for the attentions of a certain consulting detective. Cocksure Moriarty might be, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate repeatedly reassuring himself of his own brilliance through the mental domination of an opponent.

"Mmm, yes?" he drawled out lazily, as if nothing in the world was of any concern to him.

"Come off it. No games. Sherlock. Where is he? He's still alive; so what next?" And John went silent, waiting for the reply. In the end, John had realized that this man who matched Sherlock neuron for neuron would never be fooled by any guile he could weave.

Jim sat up straight, eyeing the man before him with a different scrutiny than before: the ragged appearance, the recently developed lines about his mouth and eyes that spoke of terrors and fears only newly realized, the alternating tensing of muscles all over his body…. These would have all passed unnoticed to anyone else. Well, except perhaps Sherlock, of course. All signs he noted were further confirmation of the onset of the deepest of emotional ties. That word that meant security, togetherness, loyalty…..ugh. Jim weighed his options, and he decided to just answer. And plainly. After all, the truth, when discovered, would probably hurt more than any innuendo ever could, especially in light of this new attachment the doctor seemed to have. The criminal felt buoyed up with anticipation. Where is he, John? Right where he should be….

"He's back at…my place. In good health, I assure you. And he is currently undertaking a task for me that will humiliate a certain person I have taken notice of lately. And will be the cause of much mayhem relatively soon." John heard, but fought against the urge to contradict the man. What would it gain him to argue at this point anyway? He debated options internally. Just focus. Get as much information as possible. Keep him talking. Something inane. Innocuous.

"Uh huh. He's working. For you? And who is it that's helping him while you're away? He's very…needy…when he's working, you know. Always has me sending texts and fetching things from his pockets for him. Very dependent." John was going for nonchalance with the topic, but his body language was still failing him miserably.

"Oh, I think he'll be just fine on his own, doctor. He's really something special to watch when freed of certain…moral…constraints." The word was spoken with cultured disdain. "Perhaps this 'dependence' was just a result of your crippling influence in his development?" Jim teased, looking for the verbal blow's landing. But instead, he saw John's expression change not to anger, but to worry. Odd. He tilted his head, analyzing this strange bit of data as John spoke tentatively.

"You, um, left him…somewhere?"

"Mm, yes, I do believe I just said that."

"Alone."

"Yes."

"Without supervision."

"There are guards within the grounds, but essentially, yes. They have orders to let him do as he pleases." A smile followed that statement as Jim realized another jab he could throw. "So you see, if he truly had wished to return to you, he would have done so long before now. Sad really, you waiting on something that will never happen," Jim spoke with a partial lie, but fun nonetheless.

And much as the implication that Sherlock wasn't choosing to return stabbed at him, still John was able to pick through his emotions and get back to the one that was truly important at this time: Sherlock Holmes. Alone. With seemingly lowered moral inhibitions. He didn't know what scared him more. That, or the madman seated across from him. But John pursued the topic doggedly, his breathing coming harder as he considered the possibilities. The ramifications…..the mess! And he spoke haltingly, almost unbelievingly, unable to get it all out at once.

"You left. Sherlock Holmes. Alone. In a place where I'm assuming he has access to resources maybe greater than those even his brother commands?" John asked. In truth, it was half question, half accusation. And even though there were then no halves left, it was also half shocked exclamation. "Are you totally insane?!" he yelled across the short space. Moriarty merely lifted an eyebrow at the question as if to invite John to retract a line that should be more rhetorical.

"What?" The criminal seemed genuinely perplexed as to the nature of John's concern.

"Do you have computers there? Internet?"

"What kind of a consulting criminal would I be if I couldn't take my headquarters with me at the drop of a hat? Of course."

"He'll be on them, you know. And everything else."

"He already has been. Played a bang on game of Pong. But that was just the once."

"Nope."

"What? 'Nope' what?"

"If he was on it once, then he's been on it a hundred times."

"Well, I've got computer experts to keep him from causing any true harm. He'll only think he's getting away with something."

"Nope," John said, shaking his head. "He's better than them. They won't even know it." Jim's brow drew down, but the criminal decided it mattered not. He hadn't had any reports of unusual activity on any of his fronts from informants, so whatever Sherlock did on the net, it had nothing to do with him. Probably downloading more games, Jim thought to himself with a hint of hilarity. Perhaps he'd try a game or two with him? He sighed. John was simply trying to turn the tables and get a rise out of him.

"He's fine to do whatever he wants, John, truly. I'm not concerned. I told you. He's different. He's…mine." Two can play at this game of provocation, thought Jim. "You should be more concerned with your own safety…." The criminal leaned back once more, and then left John with a last word of caution, laced with threat. "And John? Earlier?" Jim's voice dropped low with threat and restrained violence. "Don't ever…touch…me, again. Ever." Chocolate eyes blazed for a second, and then closed off the rest of the world.

The doctor watched as a sort of disgusted shiver worked its way out of Jim, making John wonder just what in the hell was EVER going on in that man's mind. But he shook his head of that contemplation and began working over other problems, with the threat of Jim's last words hanging between them heavily, ever present.

However, John's thoughts weren't concerned with who could insult whom. No. Nor his own safety. Negative. His mind was centered around the fact that Sherlock, who already had a somewhat tenuous grasp on ethics and morality, who was a known rehabilitated drug user, had been left alone (and apparently uninhibited) in a place where he would have access to just about anything he could dream up. John shivered at the thought as the car bumped along the road, bringing him closer to those possible outcomes.

Anything…..

They arrived a good deal later than John had supposed they would. He had tried to utilize his military training to get a bearing on his location by tracking the many turns, the quality of the roadways, the sounds along the trip... But the word-dueling with Jim, and the subsequent discovery of Sherlock's unsupervised state, had thrown him off just enough to make him only vaguely certain of the direction they had taken. He glanced once more at the blackened windows, wishing for just one glance at his surroundings. But it was in vain. Motion drew his vision to the spot across from him as the vehicle began to slow. Jim pulled free a long scarf and threw it at the doctor.

"Cover up, dear. Wouldn't want you to spoil the surprise of where you'll be staying." John looked at the other man with a sarcastic glare, as if questioning his decision to allow a captive to tie on his own blindfold.

"Oh, Johnny boy…tut tut. If I even think you can see anything before we get inside…" Jim leaned forward, "I'll take away that scarf and use your intestines instead." He sat back primly. "Now. Put it on." And the ex-soldier complied, figuring it wasn't worth the argument. Plus, he still had to figure he was worth something alive since there had been no real mention or sign of obvious threats to his life or person. So therefore, he would just cooperate for now. However, his hands moved into the age old symbol for "fuck off" before he lifted the material to his eyes. No reason to be too accommodating in his cooperative efforts. This, of course, earned him a return to his previously restrained state, wrists bound loosely. But at least his hands were secured in the front this time around. Things were looking up!

Jim stepped smoothly from the car, eyes scanning all around them as he then turned and grabbed John's arm to tug him in the direction he intended. Not the front, but the side. He still was uncertain of the effects seeing John in person might have on the detective. He was certain Sherlock wouldn't remember the ex-soldier, but there was certainly no point in taking stupid chances and then having to dispose of his prisoner. And besides, if he really was honest with himself, a secret desire of his was to eventually have fully corrupted the detective and have the memories returned only to have the man stay with him anyway. It would be the ultimate win. And it would need an audience, hence his desire to not have to kill Watson just yet. Sure, having Sherlock at his side even now was thrilling in its implications to the outside world. But they would all catch on eventually. Mycroft, Greg, John…those who knew the detective well would recognize that he wasn't himself. Wasn't whole. And not acknowledging John would be a dead giveaway. And so, they went in the back door.

As the doctor stumbled out of the door, Jim's mind marinated over the two possible endings of his final problem:

1) Sherlock, as he was now, corrupted, but never knowing what he was like before; never acknowledging the horror of having been subjugated by his greatest enemy.

2) Or Sherlock, corrupted, with full knowledge of all that came before. His mind followed down the path of the more desirable second ending, finding that it also had two forks:

a) Sherlock, shamed and humiliated and wretched in the knowledge of what he had been tricked into doing.

b) Or Sherlock, finding out but still choosing to remain at the criminal's side… Oh. He shivered.

The thought of his enemy's subjugation followed by a willing compliance, cooperation…oh, if he didn't stop, then he'd need a cold shower! Really, Jim was passingly fascinated at the reactions his body had to Sherlock's presence. His frankly disgusting and horrifying childhood had rendered him into a state where he sometimes wondered if his body still functioned in a sexual manner at all. Certainly, he could put on a good showing of talk combined with action and gesture, but there was generally nothing going on below the belt line during these performances. And the performances themselves were just that: useful for intimidation or mind games, but leading nowhere in truth. But here, with this man, this puzzle, this problem…interesting. Perhaps he'd explore that later if the opportunity arose.

He pulled John to the side with him, heading for a side entrance that was probably for the staff when the previous owner had been in residence. Thus far, he had only seen Sherlock bother with two or three areas of the mansion, well away from this portion, and this path would lead them around those inhabited regions so that he could secure John somewhere until he could decide what to do with him. Probably just dump him somewhere that the Yard can pick him up, he thought to himself. A dead John Watson would take all of the victory out of the conquest, after all. Better that he was returned to the relative safety of Baker Street. And what better than to be able to know that the person who idolized, cared for, and even loved, Sherlock Holmes was out there writhing in the agony of Jim's conquest? Yes, the better to have him dumped back by London. That DI fellow would pick him up, commiserate with him. Maybe they'd even cry a bit? Jim felt an almost sexual thrill run through him at the thought of the emotional pain they would know. And the elder Holmes? Ha. Hard to say with that one. He cared for Sherlock, yes, though it was shown in odd ways. Maybe the man would finally shit that concrete shard he'd had up his ass now for years? Jim chuckled at the thought of Mycroft Holmes wiping an arse bloodied by the passage of a spiky concrete brick.

He kicked the door open and guided John through. The car's driver took up a position inside the door, and once it was closed, Jim reached up and pulled free the scarf. John's eyes immediately began to take in the scenery, scanning for any identifiers.

"You can try, Dr. Watson, but I had them remove anything telling from the areas you'll be seeing." And John glared back, knowing he was right. Jim smiled and pivoted to begin walking. They passed through several narrow back hallways in a slightly circuitous route before finally emerging in what appeared to be an intimate dining room (intimate here meaning that it was hardly larger than four regular dining rooms). Jim ran his finger across the table as he passed, frowning at the dust that coated his finger when he lifted it for examination.

"Hired killers aren't much for cleaning, I suppose," the criminal sighed in mock despair before another item off to the side caught his eye. He paused. A sock. What? John stared after him as the criminal stooped to pick up the offending item, Jim's face for once genuinely puzzled as he resumed walking and laid it down over the shoulder of one of his men who was passing by on rounds. The man never batted an eye at such weird behavior. John imagined they had seen much worse, though. And thus liberated of their mystery stocking, they passed on into the adjoining room… Wherein they found another sock. The match.

John watched as Moriarty didn't bother to pick this one up, just flipping it aside with the toe of his shoe. And the doctor's mind set to wondering what further sort of oddness would eventually greet him at the hands of his captor. While in the hands of the younger Moriarty sibling, he had had a fair idea of what would happen to him; not that he wished for a return to that state! But there was something to be said for having a stable enemy; a predictable one. It was one thing to be kidnapped by a normal bad guy type; but this was James Moriarty, self-proclaimed as being "Soooooooooo changeable!" John expected that the evil little twat could alternately tell him he would be set free, or shot dead, or set on fire in the middle of an ant bed covered in honey, and John figured he wouldn't be surprised at any of the scenarios. And so he brooded and stewed over the possibilities, and asked of himself one million questions of how he would get out of this. How would he survive? When could he strike? Did he even need to? Why hadn't he accepted a tracer when Mycroft had offered it? Had they noticed his absence yet? And just where the hell was Sherlock?

They continued on, this time entering a series of rooms that appeared to be set up for stock trading. More than likely, this was left over from the previous owner. Moriarty was hardly the type to play the finances game by the rules. If he wanted money, he would just take it. As if he needed any more, John was thinking as his eyes ran across something that caused a small gasp to escape his lips. Moriarty noticed it at the same time. A Belstaff. No. Not just 'A' Belstaff….. His Belstaff.

John's eyes quickly swept every corner, and his muscles tensed, ready. If Sherlock was near, and there was even the slightest of chances…he would be prepared. But no one else was in the room except himself, Jim, and one of those Gorilla men taking up their rear. His stomach remained clenched nonetheless, and John noted with some interest that Jim had reacted in surprise as well. Didn't think we'd encounter him in this part then, did you? thought the only reassured him even further that he had been right all along. Sherlock was being held against his will. Moriarty was lying. Otherwise, why bother to hide John's presence from the detective? Funny how a simple article of clothing could be so reassuring, but there it was.

After but a moment's pause, Jim seemed to make up his mind to proceed forward, walking as though deep in thought. John stared after him, finally picking his feet back up to follow. John thought quietly to himself that Moriarty having deep thoughts…well, that could never be a good thing….what could possibly be circling within that sewer of a mind?

The sock had been odd. The second had no chance of being coincidence. The coat…now Jim was worried, and so he thought through the probable occurrences during his absence from the grounds as he walked onwards. He didn't even bother to check that Watson was still behind him. The man would follow. There was no reason not to. Obviously, the soldier in him had figured that he had some value, and that that value would be revealed eventually. But Jim had no intention of revealing to John just exactly why he held any worth in the criminal's eyes. That would be discovered on his own, later, when it would be far more delicious.

They were almost to the suite of rooms Jim had chosen to detain the doctor in until he could arrange for someone to make a run out and drop him somewhere suitably dramatic. His legs carried him through the recently made familiar hallways, set on autopilot as the intelligence behind his brown eyes flew across plots so vast that he even he himself got lost in the planning at times. To the exclusion of all else, his focus was on the internal, leaving the body functioning on its own, only peripherally aware of the outside world of flesh and time. Until he passed the room to his left…and stopped.

John almost ran into him from behind at the abrupt change in velocity. The man following them was far enough behind that he halted a good ten feet to their rear, escaping the embarrassing spill John had just managed to avoid. Jim was hardly aware of any of this taking place behind him. His mind was focused instead on something he had just noticed. Some inconsistency. He took a few steps backwards, causing John to step out of the way, curiosity written plain across his annoyingly open face. Jim's back steps took him to line up with the doorway he had just passed. And he paused, holding perfectly still as he peered through the opening.

It was a game room of sorts. Dart boards stood out along walls that reared a good forty feet away from the doorframe. There were about three pool tables, two ping pong tables, and some scattered tabletops of varying sizes which were most likely for card games. All looked as if they hadn't been touched in months. A full out bar was lined up against one of the opposite walls, looking sad and neglected of human contact. Jim had only seen this room perhaps twice before, but as with most things, he only had to see things once, at most twice, to enable him to recreate it with almost perfection within his mind. Thus, something was out of place, and his awareness had marked it. Now all he had to do was get his conscious mind to translate the difference to him.

His eyes swept from one side to the other, slow and meticulous in their examination. John stood silently at his back. Probably calculating how many ways he can kill me, Jim snorted softly to himself. Wait! Ah, there it was. And he almost laughed at the conspicuousness of it. He began to walk in towards the discovery: feet. Pale feet, plantar surfaces facing the ceiling, toes wriggling, almost chest height up the wall. Ankles and calves were revealed as he came closer. And he almost tripped as his shoes became entangled in something. He snarled slightly as he looked down, and then widened his eyes in confusion. Trousers? His gaze rose, and he started forward again, finally coming around the pool table that was occluding his vison. And he found..…Sherlock?

The detective lay with his back flat on the floor, ass against the wall, legs supported vertically up, and um….naked… Well, as good as anyway. He wore only his thin pants, and even they were sliding down low over the tops of his thighs. Jim's thoughts weren't on the impropriety, however. His gaze quickly assessed the rest of the man before him. Correction: the rest of the giggling man before him. Brown eyes evaluated everything from the detective's nonsensical laughter, to the expensive Armani button up shirt that he had wrapped around his head like a turban, to the slight line of red that ran in a downward arc from the inner forearm {not flaking yet, so it's still fairly soon since it bled}… This inevitably led to the evaluation of the harshly beating pulse in the side of the detective's neck, the slight sheen of sweat covering his already too-pale skin…and the empty, discarded syringe jammed into the dartboard above those dancing toes. Jim sighed, loudly.

Sherlock's eyes slid open, scarily blank for a moment, and Jim berated himself once again for the use of opiates with his initial memory erasure cocktails those first weeks. The effect it would have on an addict should have considered. Oh well, he rolled his eyes at the fallacy of men; especially tall, naked, giggling, genius men. And a deep baritone interrupted his self-critique.

"Jim? Jim!" Sherlock rolled over, or fell depending on one's definition of 'rolling,' and attempted to get to his feet quickly, which was obviously a mistake. "You wouldn't…you wouldn't believe what I found!" The staggering detective launched himself into Jim's arms, grabbing him by the shoulders as if they had been best friends for life. Then the detective released the criminal and returned to the wall, running his hands across it slowly in a caress. "I was watching them only a minute ago, but you and your friends must've scared them away." He glanced back, seeing Jim's face. "Spiders, Jim. Great, enormous beasts of burden they were! I was calculating how quickly they spun webs above me as compared to the normal breeds when you interrupted them." Jim remained flat faced. "Jim, who's your friend?"

The criminal's heart leapt into his throat as he turned to see an alternatingly overjoyed and horrified John Watson entering through the doorway now that he had figured out who Jim was interacting with in the game room. Shit. He heard Sherlock's voice once again.

"He looks like someone I've met before. Is he a friend of yours? Why are his hands tied?" Even the detective's speech sounded wrong right now. And Jim quickly found his own voice.

"No, Sherlock. No. He's no…friend. But I'm just taking him to his room, and then I'll be back, and we'll…see to you," the criminal said with an obvious uncertainty lacing the words. But the detective's eye had taken in something about Jim, and he strode over, slightly unsteady, stopping just before him and raising a hand, pointing at Jim's lip. And then his neck.

"Who did this?" came the demand. Jim started to laugh at the silliness of the situation, but Sherlock stopped him, emotions switching in a swift mimic of Jim's own tendency toward bipolar. Anger swiftly clouded the sickly pale features as his fingers swept lightly over the marks on Jim's body. "Who. Did. THIS?" he demanded, eyes eerily gray, flat, dead. And then those same orbs found John, within whom horror had won the previous emotional battle. He had stopped approaching when he got to within a few feet of the two other men, the gorilla man/agent having remained in the hallway until called for, knowing his boss preferred to handle things himself at times.

While the detective and criminal had been speaking, John had been fighting an internal war. The doctor's mind had attempted traversing the grief stages at least three times already, but he kept getting stuck, never making it to the last stage. Denial, bargaining, depression, anger….. denial, bargaining, depression, anger….denial…depression…anger….depression….anger….anger…ANGER.

Muscles tensed, fists clenched. John's mind flooded over in red tones as he looked on at the destroyed man before him. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, reduced to the state of a common street druggie. No. NO! God, no! And the one responsible, the man who had enabled this, stood before him chatting away with the detective as if there were no cause for concern here at all. Did he not realize what he had done here?! His face was flushing red, he could feel the heat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight off the desire to attack; the need for action. After all, his hands remained tied in front of him. Not exactly the best of conditions to be fighting in. Jim and Sherlock continued speaking before him, as if he didn't even matter.

"Was it him?"

"Sherlock, why don't…"

"Was. It. Him?"

"Didn't you do the bank work I set you to? The puzzle? The one for me, that took me 17 hrs?"

"Finished it in three. Was. It. Him?" Sherlock gesticulated toward John in a very dramatic manner.

"I…" Jim almost said 'wow' out loud. And he would have meant it. Truly. Three hours… While he could attribute part of his own long time solving it to generally screwing off…..still, he didn't think even his real time solving it would have been anywhere near three hours. Suddenly, it was very important to him that Sherlock not behave like this. Not be a drugged lunatic. A mind like that was beautiful. Pristine. Perfect. He would rather examine it outside of the encasing skull than have it abused as it was now, under the influence of God only knew what.

He turned to face the doctor, determined that he would placate Sherlock by a show of speaking with John in familiarity so as to dispel his suspicion somewhat. But as he turned his gaze upon the sandy haired ex-soldier, he saw John's decision, his very thoughts, as clear as if they were words on a page. They read: Fuck it. And suddenly, Jim had his arms full of an army doctor bent on his demise. Should have tied those wrists better, he mused as he saw the restraint go flying, but he hadn't expected this level of resistance from John. Not yet at least. He wrestled the man sideways, quickly realizing that he never should have allowed the doctor so close, much less taking him by surprise, especially since he was now engaged with a stronger and slightly larger opponent.

He was rammed into the wall behind him, John stepping slightly back once, quickly, to draw back and land a solid blow to the side of Moriarty's jaw. Stars clouded his vision shortly, and then there were hands on his throat. What was it with people wanting to choke him? He twisted, almost dislodging the grip, one of the hands falling away, and reached up to try for his attacker's eyes. All he got was another side punch to the other jaw, and a repeated slamming into the wall behind him. He heard John say something like, "You bastard!" A fist landed in the criminal's stomach just seconds after a third slam. And then a knee. And more would have followed, except then…Sherlock was there. Jim gasped in air as he watched the detective's form interpose between himself and his attacker. And Christ, was he frightening.

John found himself crashing to the floor, with the detective landing solidly on top of him and driving the air from his lungs. And then he was screaming as the taller man's teeth found his shoulder, biting deep. He managed to pull away and roll before irreparable damage was done. Luckily, even though the drug in Sherlock's system seemed to lend strength through adrenaline bursts, it also had him suffering from a bit of incoordination. He thought of what to say, and he opened his mouth with the intent of speaking to Sherlock, reasoning with him. But when he looked over at his best friend as they both struggled to regain footing first, he was almost defeated.

There was no recognition in those eyes. No acknowledgement. No…anything really. At least not anything familiar. There was something different, though. Something new. Something…terrifying. Sherlock began to walk slowly towards him, his face set in hatred, animal in its primal state. He carried John's death in his eyes. And the doctor took a step back as he began to understand the new thing he was seeing within his friend. John's eyes flicked back and forth from the visage of the now almost-recovered consulting criminal to the approaching changeling, once his friend. Sherlock. Jim. Sherlock….

And the criminal saw it happen, once again reading minds, as the realization washed over John. The poor doctor's thoughts were to Jim like water to a dying man as he understood part of Moriarty's game, The same; they're the same. No…..

And then Sherlock was launching himself at John again, and they clashed together, with the detective thankfully just unbalanced enough from the drugs that his well-concealed talent at open-handed fighting availed him nothing. An arm swung around from John's left, and he ducked low, trying to trip up the taller man. No results. Further appendages came flying in, set on causing maximum damage, if John were to judge based on the areas being focused on. John himself concentrated mostly on deflection, not wanting to hurt his friend badly, but slowly seeing his choices narrowing as he tried. It was so much more effort to not harm an opponent bent on doing you harm. A blow suddenly connected to his jaw that he hadn't been able to turn out of quickly enough. And then another landed to his side. He quickly backpedaled and bumped into another other wall.

Kicking out, he caught Sherlock in the hip, spinning the tall man and causing him to crash beside John, instead of into him. But the detective flung his arm out at the last, landing a forearm across the doctor's clavicle and throat. John choked for a minute, and attempted to grab and restrain the frenzied man beside him. But Sherlock had similar ideas, his reach longer than John's. And those long, musician's fingers wrapped around the shorter man's throat. And there was a part of John that almost wanted to give up right there, as he struggled to pry open at least one of those surprisingly strong hands. The change in this man was lamentable. It sickened him to the point of wishing an end, whether it be death or otherwise. As long as it brought some sort of ending to his conscious thoughts, and the pain that accompanied them. His vision swam as he struggled. He knew seven ways to break a hold like the one Sherlock was currently working him into. Unfortunately, each one significantly disabled and/or killed the attacker…..

And John Watson would die before he ever hurt Sherlock Holmes.

He blinked, reaching that point in one's struggles wherein the mind becomes strangely almost inebriated. Was that…? His eyes squinted, trying to see around his friend, who was killing him. He earned a slam into the wall for it, letting out a grunt of air. And then he was falling free, sliding down the wall. Coughing, sputtering, gasping, he looked up from his hands and knees position. I died, he thought. Heaven's having one over on me. Because as John gazed upwards, he saw James Moriarty standing behind Sherlock, restraining him violently as he called out to his much confused, and apparently useless agent.

"Bring Dr. Watson to his room for me, would you?" Or at least, it sounded something like that to John. But he still felt the room spinning, so he wasn't quite sure of anything right now. He felt himself pulled to his feet, and the room tilted with him. He staggered into the agent, who pulled his arms behind him and grasped them in one huge, beefy hand. A gun muzzle was felt next, right in between his shoulder blades. But even then, he almost fell over again.

Jim laughed as he watched John teeter. With the exception of being attacked himself, this had been more fun than anything he'd done lately. The criminal's smile broadened as he felt the detective fight his hold, bucking unsuccessfully. As John regained his equilibrium, the criminal had one final parting gift to give, though it was not a material possession. No. It held so much more power than anything tangible. It came to Jim as a last minute idea, but a fine one indeed. As the doctor looked on in a sort of half-dazed state, Jim released Sherlock, grabbing one arm as the larger man began to fall forward, and spinning him around. He slid a quick hand about the detective's waist, pulling their bodies together and grinning up into the slightly confused countenance. Moriarty spoke, and John knew the words were for him, though the other man didn't face him as the criminal leaned in and flicked a tongue slowly up the length of Sherlock's throat. The taller man's head tilted, allowing freer access, causing Jim to smile with evil purpose as he spoke.

"You understand now, doctor?" The criminal's free hand ran up along Sherlock's side, the detective's eyes sliding drunkenly shut as he did so. "Erased you," he continued. The hand rose higher to run a finger along the underside of the detective's jaw in a possessive gesture, and he whispered hatefully, "Replaced you."

And it was as if the criminal's words transcended the intangible, hammering into John's very soul and twisting the contents of his pericardium until it felt his heart had stopped. Breath came awkwardly, painfully. There really is such a thing as broken heart syndrome, Sherlock; kills people just like any major cardiac condition, John remembered recounting this to the detective during a particularly puzzling case. He had been glad that day to actually know something that the genius didn't. Now, he thought it likely that he himself would see a similar fate firsthand.

His eyes were locked onto the detective's face as the agent behind him tried to steady his wobbling more effectively. John was searching, searching. There had to be something. Anything. Please! But there was no answer, and he found he couldn't move, rooted to the spot. He felt bile rise up in his throat as he watched Moriarty stroke a hand down the side of his friend's face, with Sherlock turning into that touch as if he wanted it, needed it… And it seemed Jim's agent had sensed that his boss wanted John to witness this intimacy, feel this anguish, because he made no move yet to drag him from the scene. The doctor almost cried out as Sherlock then raised a shaking hand of his own in a precise mimicry of the criminal's previous touch, reaching a bit farther, though, to tangle his fingers in the criminal's hair.

Too much. It was all too much. How far gone was Sherlock? He didn't even seem to recognize John in any sense. No street drug was powerful enough in a single dosing to do that kind of damage. So…. What's been done to you, Sherlock? His soul bled out slowly on cold marble flooring as he watched the taller man's gentle touch run across the skin of one whom John would dig the heart out of bare-handed if granted the opportunity. His own heart crumbling to ashes, John began to turn away as Jim flashed him a sinful smile and angled his face sideways a bit to place a kiss along Sherlock's inner forearm. The doctor stepped forward to pivot just as Jim's lips made contact with his friend's skin, causing a small sound to escape from the detective's mouth. Sherlock's arm twisted slightly, as if the contact caused both pleasure and tickled. And John saw…John saw…

The doctor tripped in mid-pivot, the agent behind him cursing and pulling him back up. John felt his heart thud painfully. Once. Twice. The electrical current and automaticity of his heart sending painfully sweet bolts through his chest as he felt his life restart itself. He tried to cover his slip, schooling his expression back into despair, as he completed the turn and marched out before the large gorilla of a man. But inside…inside…his determination roared back to life with a power to rival the strength of the Thames. It grew inside of him, and then he banked it low in order to conceal what he had seen. That brief instant had been all he needed. When Sherlock's pale arm had turned, and John had seen the scar carved purposefully through the integument. It was a name. His name. JOHN.