Chapter Title: Liar Liar

A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D

Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)

Words: 1,845

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D

John's eyes fluttered open with sudden feeling of being watched. He rolled over and blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes. The clock read two in the morning, way too early to be awake.

John became aware of ragged breathing behind him, somewhere far in the dark corners of the room. He closed his eyes and rolled back over, knowing exactly who was watching him.

"Jim," He addressed sleepily, sitting up against his headboard.

"Good job, Johnny boy! I never thought you'd be able to identify me by my breathing, but sure enough, you just did!" He sang, his voice slightly above a whisper.

"Yeah, well, being in the war heightens your senses." John stretched his arms out in front of him and winced as the scar tissue overextended too far.

Moriarty switched the lamp beside him, the light engulfing the room in dim light. "You smashed your phone, Johnny. Now how am I supposed to reach you?"

John yawned, "You're not."

Moriarty put on a mock pout. "But, John," He whined, "we work so well together." His pout melted into a smirk, his eyes growing darker.

John glared, "I don't work with criminals, not anymore."

Moriarty stood, flattening the wrinkles that had formed on his Westwood suit from sitting in John's desk chair as he watched the blogger sleep. He slowly started to approach John, taking each step quietly but quickly as to not disturb the light-sleeper landlady two floors down. "Don't you miss the old times? You," he paused, taking another step, "me," he grinned, getting closer with another stride, "Seb," his eyes twinkled evilly as he finally reached the edge of John's bed, "striking terror into Londoners hearts. You miss it, don't you?"

"Not in the slightest," John growled, tensing as Moriarty sat on the edge, the bed sinking slightly with Moriarty's weight.

Moriarty leaned closer to John's figure, "You say one thing, but your blue eyes say another."

John's nostrils flared, "Get out. Now."

Moriarty just smiled, his teeth shimmering pearl white despite the poor lighting.

"Hell, how did you even get in here?" John knew Sherlock would've been up, either sprawled out on the couch with his limbs splayed in different directions or pacing the floor, bored out of his mind.

Moriarty acted shocked. "You underestimate me, John Watson! To think, I've known you all these years and you still don't know what I can do? Hurtful, Johnny boy, very hurtful."

John groaned, "What did you do? Tie him up? Drug him? Knock him out?" John guessed, hoping it wasn't something that would have lasting effects on the violinist.

"Just a little prick in the neck, nothing too horrible." Moriarty smiled wickedly, "I'm not a monster, Johnny boy. I do have a heart, believe it or not."

John rolled his eyes. "You drugged him, great. That means he'll wake up expecting an answer as to how he fell asleep."

Moriarty stared, "What's so strange about falling asleep?"

John laughed, "You don't know Sherlock. He doesn't sleep for weeks when he's on a case."

"And?"

"He's on a case," John replied, rubbing his hands against his face and ruffling his hair.

Moriarty nodded, "Oh." He let a beat of silence pass until he added, "Well, I wish you the best of luck on explaining it. You've proven to be brilliant in the act of telling lies," He winked.

John sighed, "Just tell me what you want, Jim." Moriarty opened his mouth, but John cut him off, "But before you ask, I will not: kill anyone, kidnap anyone, threaten anyone, beat anyone up, or do anything that will endanger anyone's life. Kidnapping and torturing Gerald until he revealed your precious hard-drive's location was the last favor, Jim. I will never ever do it again."

Moriarty smiled gleefully, "But that's the thing, John! I don't believe that! We both know you miss the war, and this, my dear blogger, is war." His eyes narrowed, "You will do anything I ask of you, Johnny boy. Believe me."

John smirked, "Oh, really? And how do you expect to make me do anything you ask?"

Moriarty shrugged, "Oh, I don't know…maybe I could pay a little visit to your dear parents, or maybe that sweet sister of yours? Oh, she does seem fun!"

John's smirk fell, "You touch them, I swear-"

"What? You swear what? That you'll kill me? Come now, John, that's a little hard to believe, don't you think?" Moriarty grinned, enjoying every minute of John's nervousness. "Nobody has ever come close to killing me, and trust me, a lot of people have tried. Though, I don't have the faintest idea why!" He chirped, his voice getting higher with every word.

John was fuming, his face getting beat red. "Don't you dare do anything to hurt them, Jim! If you do anything to endanger their lives, I will spend the rest of my life tracking you down and I will kill you, savoring the feel of my hands wrapped tightly around your neck…crushing your windpipe."

"Dark, Johnny," a smirk pulled at his lips, "I like it. But really, I wouldn't set your goals too high because that is never going to happen. Just because you're a soldier doesn't mean you'll be any different from the professional snipers and contract killers that have tried before…and miserably failed, I might add. They each met their fate, and you'll meet yours before you even have a chance to fire a shot. Seb will make sure of that." Moriarty's smirk turned into a sardonic grin, "Your precious family will live just as long as you do every single thing I say."

John sighed in defeat, "Fine. Just leave them out of this."

Moriarty's hand shot out and captured John's wrist. He forced John's hand into a palm and set a phone down into the flat of his hand. He pushed John's fingers around the phone and leaned in, the smile absent from his lips, his 'serious' face on (well, as serious as Jim Moriarty could get), "Stay available, and Johnny boy?"

John looked up into his eyes, a tired look on his face.

"Don't break this one."

…

Sherlock groaned and stretched, theatrically rolling off the couch. "What the Hell?"

John looked up from his book and smirked. "Sleep well?"

Sherlock stared up at him. "How did I even fall asleep? The last thing I remember is being in my mind palace…" He strained to remember just how he had fallen asleep. Usually, he was so careful not to succumb to the lulls of sleep that pestered him within his mind.

"Maybe you just drifted off. You have been awake since Thursday." John spoke, not looking up from his book.

"What day is it?" Sherlock sat up, his curls poking out in various directions.

"Tuesday."

"I don't understand! I usually don't fall asleep until the case has been solved! Do you know how much time has been wasted now?" Sherlock whined, ruffling his curls into a messier style. He stood, plopping down on the couch face first. "Oh, John…This is terrible," he muttered against the cushions.

"You know, you could always stop whining and just get back to what you were doing," John pointed out, raising his eyebrows at the detective's childish behavior.

"But the facts, John! They aren't fresh in my mind!" Sherlock sighed, "Now I have to review every fact and file again!"

"Drama queen," John muttered.

"Name calling, John? Really?" Sherlock looked up from the cushions and frowned at the ex-soldier. "Ugh, how did this happen? Why me?"

"Oh, boo-hoo. You got some much needed rest, poor you," John snapped, a little too harshly.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, hurt flashed across the detective's features.

John set his book down and sighed, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean it." John watched as Sherlock set his head back down, "Sherlock?"

"Call Lestrade, tell him that he will have to solve this case all on his own" Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock," John sighed, "I'm sorry that you fell asleep, but you can't just give up on the case because you took a five hour nap."

Sherlock visibly sighed. "It just doesn't make sense! I don't remember anything after my mind palace…it's almost like I was drugged…"

A text pinged in on John's cell, distracting from John's immediate anxiety at Sherlock's guess –err, well, deduction. He picked it up, his hands shaking. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that it wasn't the phone that Moriarty had gifted to him, but his personal cell. "It's Mycroft. He requests your expertise."

Sherlock scoffed. "If he wants my help, he can come here and ask in person." Sherlock smiled, "But he won't. Pride thing," he clarified, noting John's confused reaction.

"Oh, sibling rivalry?"

"Hm."

Another text came in and John read it off. "Sibling rivalry is juvenile, we simply do not get along…wait, how in the Hell…?" John looked around at the flat, "He has bloody microphoned cameras in our flat?"

"Problem?" Sherlock mumbled, raising his head. "It's not like we are shagging or anything."

John went red, "No…uh, I-"John cut himself off. If Mycroft had cameras trained on them 24/7, he had surely seen everything that had happened there…including Moriarty's visit.

Sherlock was about to call John out on his anxiety and sudden tense state, but another text alert on John's phone beat him to it.

John looked down at the text, and this time he didn't read it aloud.

I think it's time we have a little chat, Doctor Watson. –MH

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*Still need a beta if anyone is interested!*