A/N: More drivel for you, my pretties! Revella has given me the one finger salute (you pick which finger) that I can post this. I sincerely hope that the depth of emotions I endeavored to squash into this piece gets across to y'all. If not, well, then get drunk and read it again.

The next day dawned gray and clear, with the kind of sky that seemed as if all pigment has drained out of the universe. The sun shone down dismally through the early October air. Its light a thing of sickness rather than life. Here and there across the great lawns of Moriarty's temporary camp, men could be seen treading the grounds, more alert than mere mercenary grade could account for. Those allowed to follow and serve so closely had earned that right, often violently, but always loyally. Fanatics who were convinced of a sort of supreme chain of command in the world. Difficult to infiltrate, impossible to turn. Perfect for one of Moriarty's stature. He often wondered at their own sense of purpose. He himself would never willingly submit to serving another, and certainly never out of any sense of a "grand scheme" of things. No. In Jim's opinion, he was the grand scheme, the master schemer, and they…fodder. And yet, though his opinion of them was so low, still they followed, served, and even died (often directly because of him). It was ridiculous! But who was he to question the motivations of humanity's finest offal?

Jim had spent the dreary hours of the day conducting his operations from the sanctity of his own bedroom, clad in a most luxurious set of midnight blue cashmere pajamas. He had taken the oddly scrawled notes from Sherlock's makeshift incident room in the library and completed the necessities to stage a most glorious break in. No need to steal anything! Just having his people break through, enter, and then leave the bank in question would be enough to say "fuck you" to the security designer who had severely limited his life span when he had uttered his words of challenge to James Moriarty. The criminal still hadn't decided just how the man would eventually meet his end, but that was alright. The longer the man had to think about it, the more his suffering in the end. And that's what's truly important in life, then, isn't it? Jim chuckled to himself.

Sherlock would surely be in sore repair from the previous night, and so Jim had capitalized on the opportunity to accomplish these things without that constant watchful gaze analyzing his every move. Although, if he were to think on it long enough, he might also have discerned a second reason for his distancing. But that…that was an area he chose to leave uncharted, unexplored. Barren. He flicked his wrist over, checking the hour. 3pm. Almost time to visit the good doctor before he leaves us for better company. He closed the ledger book in his lap and set aside his computer tablet, leaning forward with elbows on his knees and hands clenched beneath his chin.

Releasing Dr. Watson was the correct choice. He had to assure himself of this over and over again. Which, quite frankly, alarmed him. His decisions were always quick, conclusive, and final. And yet, anything with Sherlock concerned had his plans evaporating to so much smoke, flowing through his fingers only to dissipate seconds later. He didn't like this uncertainty that he was seeing in himself. It made him feel once more the primal, insistent level of insanity he had only finally escaped just a few years before. He reviled the memories of his loss of control during those years prior, the blackouts, the deaths…one in particular… But even more so, he hated the thought of something taking the detective beyond his reach, his influence, right now. He couldn't have that. Not when he was already filling in the edges of his 'final problem.' He needed the answer to it. Desperately. Urgently. Like a drowning man looking through a shimmering surface to the air above, Moriarty sought the answers to his existence in the mortal frame of one man. In Holmes, he had found a reflection of something that resonated within himself. Possibilities…but of what?

He shook his head clear of these contemplations. He had work to do. Lives to ruin. Hearts to break. Well, one heart at least, he thought as got up to dress for the evening. He plucked his choices deftly from the wardrobe and tossed them onto his four poster bed. He stared down at the suit jacket, trousers, tie… Why do I always look like I'm going to a funeral? he wondered absently. He shrugged out of the pajamas and began dressing. Probably because I cause so many, I suppose, came his unremorseful answer. Evaluating his life choices wasn't on the agenda today.

John looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed, a sound outside of his room/cell alerting him to possible change. The cooled dishes of a sumptuous lunch fare sat untouched before him. No matter how hungry he was, he had refused to touch anything sent by the man he hated most in the world right now. Not that he thought it would be poisoned. No. James Moriarty would never allow him to simply die without being present for the end, gloating. Smug Irish bastard… John simply chose to resist in the only fashion available to him at the moment. At least until after he saw the despised creature again. Then he might sneak something. No sense in starving himself into weakness. But he did want to make a point at least.

His hopes had been lifted only to be shattered on the ground all in the span of maybe five minutes last night. It had hurt, unbearably, to see Sherlock like that. He had never known the detective when he had been an addict, and he was more sure than ever now that he never wanted to. However, that didn't even compare to the slithering ice John felt at the blankness in Sherlock's eyes as those mercury orbs had fallen on him. No recognition. No awareness. Nothing. Like John didn't exist at all to him. And the attack had been salt on the wound, defending Moriarty of all people. John had fought defensively, trying not to hurt his friend. And even though the doctor had come out of the fight relatively unscathed physically…his soul felt shredded, burned, ashen. Then, he had watched in petrified horror as James Moriarty had cradled Sherlock against himself…touching…possessing… And Sherlock had hung there meekly, like a rabbit in a hawk's talons, mesmerized by the sight of his own death approaching. John hadn't known what to do at that point, so vast was the cavern of grief wrought through his heart. Indecision held him in thrall. And so, he had been almost dead inside when he had seen it. A bare glimpse, but it was enough. His name. John….. On Sherlock's forearm. It gave life to the fragile remnant of hope left within the pit of his body's spirit. What it was doing there, and why it was seemingly scarred into his friend's skin, were secondary concerns at the time. All of his desperation had latched onto the image of that small patch of revealed skin. And he held it close even still.

A minute longer, and his hearing was proved correct. He could detect Moriarty's voice from just beyond the door as the man spoke to his guards. The doctor cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, standing as the criminal entered the room, smooth and gracefully poised as always. You'd think the arsehole went to finishing school, John groused. Impeccably dressed and groomed, Jim glided through the area completely at ease; every detail seen to, every hair in place, constantly in control of himself and his surroundings. John's eyes flicked to the open door and its unguarded passageway. But nothing escaped the criminal's eye.

"We both know what will happen to your detective should you attempt that, Dr Watson. So why not hear what I have to say? Hmm?" Jim stopped in the middle of the large room, his shoes making no sound as they trod on the expensive Persian carpeting. John crossed to stand about five paces away, muscles tight, shoulders tense. Nothing this man before him had to say was of any trustworthiness.

"The only thing I want to hear out of you is, 'Oh, God. It hurts. I'm dying.' Anything else is meaningless to me."

"So prickly, my little hedgehog! Well, I suppose I would be, too, had I seen what you did..." Jim's eyes were alight with a cruel mischief.

"What are you talking about?" John set his feet shoulder width apart, bracing himself for the attacks he knew would be forthcoming.

"Why, Sherlock, of course. You can't have missed it... In fact, I know you didn't. You normal people are so easy to read. Open books. Picture books, mostly. Mind-numbing."

"Still not understanding here. What, do, you, want?" John asked, tension and frustration from dealing with this demon given human form was wearing him thin already.

"You, John. I want you to see," Jim said deeply as he stepped toward the doctor. "I want you to see everything." He paused a step from the ex-soldier, noting how the other man was fighting to hold every muscle in place so as not to be seen leaning away. "Understand…everything." The criminal reached out and plucked an imaginary thread from the other man's jumper, eyes staring steadily into John's. "And then you can lose…..everything."

Jim spun on his heels and strolled to the recessed fireplace, running a finger along its mantle and coming to stand over by one of the wall length windows that ran at about two meter intervals along the suite. He gave no acknowledgement to John's glaring, seeming blissfully unaware of anyone else's feelings. His voice was lighter when he spoke again, facing away.

"Funny things, emotions… They seem mostly useless to me. But with you…you, I can use them to hurt you… And it captivates me." Jim's eyes widened a bit as he stared through the glass. "Look." A pale finger lightly pressed against the crystal surface. "Down there." And John crossed warily to the next window down from the other man to look through.

Just a few dozen meters away from them, Sherlock walked along a stone cobbled garden on the grounds. The downward view from the second floor made it difficult to make out anything concerning the detective's expression, but John felt his heart lift all the same at seeing Sherlock healthy and functional once more. His movements no longer hinted at underlying chemical influences. Then a voice cut through his reverie.

"See how you respond? Fascinating. One look, and your heart soars." Moriarty's eyes were intensely studious of him, earnest in their questing for information as he continued, voice lowering to just above a whisper. "What is it like? Having that kind of profound vulnerability? Caring for someone? Loving someone?" His eyes narrowed in distaste. "It seems a horrid weakness to me. After all, here I stand," he pulled a gun from his waist, letting it hang in his hand in idle threat, "And I could shatter your entire world with one well placed bullet." Jim's visage had become clouded, confused, and a bit disgusted by his own lack of understanding as his gaze shifted down to the gun, then back up to John. "Why would you do this to yourself?" And then Jim turned his eyes outward again, facing down to where he watched the detective plucking something from the plants along the path. The criminal's last words were for himself, but John had been alone in a silent room for hours, and so his ears picked up on the almost-inaudible whisper of, "Why would anyone?"

John's mind froze glacier white before clicking back on. His skin crawled with a horrible theory of sensation as he looked more closely at the man who was his captor. The good doctor may not be anywhere close to Sherlock's match in deductions, but he sure as hell could read emotional and nonverbal cues. And what he read here…tore the beating heart from his chest as surely as galvanized steel. How had he missed this before?! The doctor watched Moriarty at the window, not even 2 meters from himself now…and John Watson deduced him. Brown eyes softened, and pupils dilated. The almost permanent smirk was gone, leaving only slightly parted lips. Breathing was altered, different than before. The hand gripping the gun had gone lax. The other hand touched the pane, as if unconsciously reaching out. Body was positioned fully facing the object of study. Posture was more relaxed, inviting, open. Shoes pointed like arrows to their target….. And John's heart fell at the implications of such a target. Sherlock. Oh. No….

The ex-soldier's mind reeled. No no no no no… This was bad. Very bad. Worse than Afghanistan, worse than body parts left out overnight, worse than waking up married to Mycroft Holmes… He stared openly in shock at the criminal before him, trying to find a way around this conclusion, find a way to dispute it. Jim was still preoccupied with trailing Sherlock with is eyes, so he didn't mind the scrutiny. John's mind played back every interaction, every clue, every mystery laden crime scene, every comment…everything to do with Moriarty's actions toward the detective. Rather than looking at everything through the thin veil of red haze that he normally reserved for the man, John put together all of the clues, some needing readjusting in their respective spaces, but fitting nonetheless. And he found…he found…an understanding of something that both made him violently sick with terror and alternately sigh with relief. Maybe the detective was safer now than John or anyone else had ever guessed? After all, who better to look after Sherlock than someone who cared for him? Because for those ten unguarded seconds, Moriarty had let slip his impenetrable façade…and John saw through it. He caresfor him. Maybe even loves him, the doctor thought with mixed horror and wonder. Or something close to it. Probably doesn't even realize it; and never will. And then it zapped John's brain like an electric blast through his neurons that if the criminal ever did recognize it….. violent denial would surely ensue. Shit.

And then the delayed wave of rage and, yes, jealousy, crashed over John. He closed his eyes a moment at the fury behind it. It would do him no good to go off half-cocked at a man with a gun in his hand, after all. But…damn it all! Sherlock was his…or should have been… Will be, he corrected himself, ever forcing optimism into situations that didn't welcome such things. His eyes opened again to find Jim staring at him oddly, perhaps sensing the shift in his mood. The gun was held a bit tighter now, John noted. Well, bugger for him, then. Then he sighed. Damn. Sherlock…please forgive me for what I'm about to do…to say…

"You think love is a weakness?" John started, disbelief having him shake his head. "You really are beyond redemption once that possibility is gone." The ex-soldier puffed out a breath, continuing. "How can I explain something so intangible, and based on the belief in another person, to someone who holds none of that in value? Love is something that every living thing needs. Craves. It is what keeps this world worth living in." The beginnings of this impromptu speech had the criminal sneering back at him.

"It destroys logic. Ruins plans. Diverts attention. It's a drain on energy that gives nothing in return. Spawns a lot of good fairy tales, though. Marketability is through the roof," Moriarty quipped. But John was not deterred from his argument.

"It binds us together. Builds us up. Makes us strong. Protects us against untold cruelties," said the ex-soldier, shoulders back and defiant.

"Kills creativity. Brings vulnerability. Makes you dull. Makes you boring," Jim retorted in an almost monotone voice, apathetic of the counterpoints made thus far.

"Listen, I don't know what kind of games you play with the rest of the world, or what must have happened to you to make you the way you are, you sick son of a bitch…but nothing you ever say could change the way I feel. And that's true power. You have my body in captivity, yes. But my heart, my mind…?" John waved an exasperated hand in the air and turned from Jim to walk back over to his spot on the bed's edge. "Those things mean nothing to someone like you, so I don't expect understanding. But to me…love is like…it's like your soul has only been half awake your entire life until meeting the one that lights your own personal dawn. It's as if you've been away from home for so long that you can't even remember what the wallpaper looks like…until you see them…and then, no matter where you are, you are home." He shifted a bit where he sat, gesturing with his hands before him, fighting the inadequacy of spoken words to relay the underlying meaning of what he wanted to convey. "It's like you've had something wrong with you your whole life, an unsolvable puzzle, a problem with no solution," Jim's eyes widened in shock at the use of the word 'problem,' "…and then someone comes along and provides the answer, giving you a whole new perspective of life." John carded his hands through his short cropped hair, eyes looking up at the madman who had half followed him to where he now sat. "It's just…amazing," he finished weakly, eyes closing, firmly convinced that he had just spent the last few minutes aiming the misguided affections of Jim Moriarty straight at his best friend. But what else was there? If this evil being before him lost interest in Sherlock, then where might that lead him?

There was a brief silence that followed his words, long enough that it caused him to open his eyes again to check the position of the room's other, dangerous, occupant. Jim stood there, drawing the shadows of the room with his mere presence, staring through the doctor's body, as if taking apart his soul. The criminal's face was…so like Sherlock's when locked in this intense concentration that John had to avert his gaze shortly, his gut clenching round the short spears of pain that formed within. He waited, not desiring further conversation of this topic. At least, not with this man. But finally, eons of nothing ended...with a ringtone.

The fanciful music trilled out brightly from Jim's jacket pocket, a new Disney song that John thought he recognized as "Let it Go" from the animated movie 'Frozen.' The criminal smiled in a mock apology as he held up a finger and pulled the mobile free, muttering something about someone who always wanted fun music for their identifier. He swiped the screen to answer his call and turned slightly away. John strained to hear anything, because he never knew what might be an important clue that could lead to unraveling the mystery of his location. But all he heard was what seemed a tenor voice, possibly female. He couldn't make out what was said by the voice, so he listened to the words of the man on this end.

"No. I'll bring it by in just a bit." A pause. And it seemed to John that Moriarty's voice was…different. "Yes. I promise." Pause. "Lots of it, yes." Pause. "Listen, darling, I've really got to get back to work right now. I'll see you very soon." Pause. "You too." To say that John was simply perplexed defied the very foundation of confusion. Mere language could not capture the depths of his mental crossfire at the moment. However, he was given no further time for consideration as the criminal slotted the cell back into place and whipped about, all dark intensity and purpose returned as he gave a level and knowing glare to the ex-soldier. He resumed their conversation as if there had been no interruption at all.

"I know what you're doing," the criminal voiced low, sending a trickle of frozen arrows through John's heart. "I may be more the sociopath than our mutual friend out there, but I recognize your fear. Your...horror? Yes." Jim turned and walked back over to the window, peering out and down at Sherlock. John watched his progress warily, and his heart jumped at the sight of the gun coming up and taking aim at what he could only guess from his imperfect viewpoint was his friend's body. Jim turned his head to give a secret little smile at the ex-soldier.

"Stop. Don't." John said softly.

"Oh, but mustn't I? Here you've spouted these wondrous things about life, and love, and sentiment…all aimed at me." Jim's eyes returned to sighting the target. "Well, let me reassure you, Dr. Watson, that my interest in Sherlock Holmes is purely professional." The hand tightened around the handle of the Sig before a loud whisper followed. "I could kill him. Right now. And it would be your fault. Your. Fault."

"No," John said simply, more a statement than a plea. And it caused Moriarty's head to turn towards him again.

"What?"

"No…. You can't kill him… Not here. Not now." John took a steadying breath, his voice gaining confidence in his own deduction as he made the biggest gamble of all, with Sherlock's life as the currency. "And you won't."

Jim stared him down, chocolate brown eyes turning a murky, sour color in anger. He was fighting an inner battle, that much John could tell. Kill Sherlock out of spite, or…not. John had no idea what motives Moriarty could justify to himself why he would ever spare the detective's life, but the doctor had desperate hopes that the facile mind behind those eerily glaring eyes would birth one of sufficient promise. A veritable famine of audible noise swirled through the room as choices and decisions, possibilities and futures were all subjected to the thorough examination and scrutiny of the master criminal. And John thought he could feel it, that instant when Jim's mood shifted…a decision reached. The ex-soldier swallowed hard in anxiety-riddled anticipation as his eyes locked onto the gun, and more specifically, the trigger finger.

Both arm and gun slid softly back to the criminal's side, and Jim chuckled self-deprecatingly. He pocketed the gun, spinning away from the window and spreading his arms wide, voice loud once more.

"You're right, Dr. Watson! I simply can't kill him now. Not when I've invested so much in his turning. Thank you ever so much for reminding me!" His arms lowered and he looked around as if realizing the time. "Well, it looks as if it's time for you to leave. But one more thing before you depart…" And the criminal crossed swiftly to John's position again, reaching out and twisting his hand into the upper front of the cable knit fabric, pulling John face to face. The ex-soldier held still, revealing nothing. Jim's eyes were wide with madness and malicious glee as he said, low and suggestively, "I marked him, doctor. He's mine. I own him. His mind," Jim's eyes flicked towards John's forehead first before flicking downwards below his chest, "And body."

John was suddenly shoved back, the fingers releasing his shirt as Jim spun to leave. The hands that had committed and ordered thousands of crimes slipped effortlessly into Jim's trouser pockets, and he called out over his shoulder, "Time to go, Dr. Watson. And don't worry. No dying for you; how ordinary! No, just a trip back to Scotland Yard to show them yet again how inept they are. I trust you'll be fine without me? My men will…show you out…" A vague gesture above the criminal's head as Jim walked out was the last John saw of him.

"Piss off," John grumbled miserably, feeling drained as the criminal wended his way through and out of the doorway. Five men entered afterwards, all looking grim, armed, and well prepared. One held out the blindfold. John rolled his eyes and snatched it, cursing the entire time it took to tie it up. And maybe longer…

Moriarty left John in the capable, and oft times brutal, hands of five of his men. Enough to handle him, for sure. His mind flashed onward to new topics, Dr. Watson being the least of his concerns. And now… he thought as he entered his own wing of the building once again. His scattered plottings from this morning still lay strewn about haphazardly as he entered his chambers, intent on one thing. Answers. But for this, he would have to go deep. Deeper than the Hall of Mirrors, but not so far as dreams. A sort of in-between space that opened more doors to the mind's lost secrets and intuition. Experienced meditation practitioners could encounter it when focused shrewdly enough. His mirrored hallways were excellent for reflecting on knowledge already acquired or experienced. But for this, he needed to learn something about himself. Study. Something as yet not understood, or even hinted at, in the waking world. But he knew it was important, and that it was part of his solution to the final problem.

The only issue was that this area that existed outside of both the conscious and the subconscious wasn't always controllable. As in, things learned within weren't always brought back, consciously anyway. They very well may remain locked in the vaults of the brain, just as inaccessible as if they had never been learned at all. It was unpredictable and risky, especially for Jim, whose mind held such nightmares and midnight blackness. If he were pulled under and caught in one…well…trouble.