Sorry for the looong wait!
Again, beta'd by MrsNoggin. Without her these chapters would be full of typos, bad grammar and inconsistencies. Thank you dear! All remaining mistakes are my own.
Warnings: mention of torture
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!
Hungary, village near Budapest, 12 October 2012
The first thing John noticed when he regained consciousness was that he was no longer in the woods. The floor underneath him was hard and cold. The complete lack of sound was another hint that his location had changed. As he could not remember shifting, the only possible reason was that he was moved by someone else and that meant most likely that he was captured by the group he had been watching. He wracked his brain to figure out what had happened to him, but came out blank. The last thing he remembered was a prick in the arm from what he thought was an insect. Now it seemed more likely that it was a dart from a tranquilizer gun. After that, everything had gone black.
All these thoughts established themselves in his mind the moment he woke up, but to any onlooker it looked like he was still unconscious. Situation awareness was something taught to him during his Special Forces training and it had become a habit to take a few extra seconds to gauge the situation before allowing himself to move and open his eyes. He did it even at home in his own bed, firstly because some things were just that hard to shake off, and, secondly, it helped to know what Sherlock was up to before leaving the relative safety of his bedroom.
Unfortunately, other than the fact that he was most likely alone in this room, unbound and unhurt - except for a slight nausea that hinted at some kind of narcotic drug - there was nothing much to be detected. With a slightly overdramatic groan he rolled over to his side and opened his eyes. Yep, small room, no windows, single door, closed and most likely locked, camera in one corner and a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling that gave off just enough light to illuminate the room. And a metal chair, pushed to the side of the room.
'Just great,' John thought to himself, 'Why do I always get kidnapped whenever Sherlock is involved?'
He knew that Col. Moran was part of this crew so there was no point in pretending to be scared. That trick had served him well before, but his was not a situation where playing the harmless victim would gain him anything. Instead he gave the door a quick check, just to make sure it was indeed locked, which it was, and then settled in the far corner of the room in direct view of the camera. He was aware that he was in a very dangerous situation, but after weeks and months of misery, loneliness and sitting idle in London, he couldn't help but feel indefinitely more alive sitting in this tiny cell. He snickered, leant back against the wall and allowed himself the first genuine smile since that damned fall. He was prepared to be left alone for awhile, so he shuffled into a somewhat comfortable position and waited.
It turned out John didn't have to wait for long. Barely ten minutes after he regained consciousness the door opened and two armed men entered. One of them grabbed the chair and placed it in the centre of the cell, the other one had pulled his gun and levelled it to Johns head.
"We have been warned you might try to escape. Don't."
John just nodded. He recognised the look in this man's face and he meant every word. Also, he was still weakened from the drug and knew he would not stand a chance against two well trained and armed opponents. He decided to play along for now and to gather as much intel as he could.
The man motioned for him to sit down on the chair and John obliged, feeling his hands roughly pulled back the moment he sat down and secured with cuffs behind his back. He noticed that the second guy threaded the cuffs through a chain attached to the chair, just behind the seat, and again had to appreciate the fact that he was dealing with professionals. The chain would prevent him from just lifting his arms over the back support of the chair and made for a much more secure position.
The two guys left and in strode no other than Sebastian Moran. John caught a brief glimpse of the hall way outside, but it was just as bare as his cell, and there was at least one more armed guard positioned outside his cell. Knowing his old commander and friend, that guard would not be the only one and was most likely excellently trained. His day just got better and better.
Moran closed the door, and turned to John.
"Hello Sebastian, long time no see." John said nonchalantly, trying -and failing- to lighten the mood.
"Hello Andrew, welcome to my modest home." Sebastian paused. "Or should I rather call you Dr John Watson? Which one do you prefer?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm and barely controlled anger.
John did an excellent job hiding his surprise at Sebastian's words. But on the inside his mind went into overdrive. Sebastian knew his real name. But how? Exactly how long had he been working for Moriarty? And why hadn't he contacted John before if he knew that he was alive? They had been friends after all.
"Either is fine, really, although the Andrew you knew died in Afghanistan." There, John managed to sound almost indifferent and bored. Something he had picked up from Sherlock, he realised.
Sebastian on the other hand could no longer contain his rage and didn't even try to hide it. "I KNOW!" He screamed, "They told us when we finally made it back to Base: 'Very sorry Col. Moran, but Cap. Doyle did not make it.' That's all. Case closed, business as usual."
Sebastian started to pace up and down, gesturing wildly and clearly agitated. "We were friends, Andrew. And you just left me behind in that hellish place. Couldn't talk to anybody, Roberts and Adams shipped out to different teams, and no one else knew what had happened. Alcohol helped for a while, but then they kept me off duty. Said I was too dangerous in my current state of mind. Too freaking dangerous, me, can you imagine?! The army spend years training me to be an assassin, and then they just kick me out! Some idiot therapist diagnosed PTSD and they forced me to retire on medical reasons. Thrown away like a broken rifle. Useless."
John flinched. He felt sympathy for Sebastian. After all, he knew only too well how it felt to have no purpose. He had been at a similar place before Sherlock had waltzed into his life. "I am sorry. I did not know. "
Sebastian had stopped his erratic movements and turned to stare at John. His glance was ice cold.
"Spare me your sentiments, John. You went home, found Sherlock freaking Holmes and lived happily ever after! You didn't even try to find me, even though you at least knew that I was alive. I was lost after my return. Until my little brother found me. He gave me a new purpose, a new war. And this time we made the rules." Sebastian's eyes softened at the memory, but John saw a dangerous glimmer in them. "Until you and your precious Sherlock came along and had to ruin everything for the second time!" By then, he had dropped the cool composure and John was finally able to see the madness in his former friend.
"Sebastian, I..."
"DON'T call me that! My real name is Jake. Jake Moriarty."
And with that he turned and left the cell, slamming the door behind him leaving a gasping John behind. Still tied securely to the chair, John was reeling from that last blow.
Sebastian was Jim Moriarty's older brother! Holy crap, that was unexpected, to say the least. And, just like his psychopathic brother, he was dangerously unhinged. The dismissal from the army, coupled with blame over his friends death had left Seb- no - Jake in a vulnerable state, and Jim had taken full advantage. He had molded his older brother into his personal executioner. John thought back to the pool incident, the snipers. Had Jake been one of them? How often had they crossed paths without even realising it? How often had he walked through the crosshairs of a loaded rifle?
And then more recently the snipers on him, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. With what he knew now, John strongly suspected that Sebast- Jake had been his sniper. Jim was always very sly with these kinds of things.
John had tried to locate some of his old team mates after his return to London, Sebastian being the first on his list, but with the cover identities all his enquiries had come out empty. The army refused to give out any information and the classified nature of his old job came back to haunt him. Never had he imagined to see his old friend again under such circumstances!
Sherlock had heard the commotion outside his cell, it had brought him out of his mind palace and he was annoyed with the guards for being so inconsiderate. They brought in a new prisoner, and judging from the screaming, Jake was not very happy with the poor sod. He found that he didn't really care, as long as the new guy distracted Jake's attention away from him. He was still recovering from his latest confrontation with the mad man, a few days ago:
He was finally free from the cuffs. Having spent a good amount of time forced into an uncomfortable kneeling position, his shoulders, neck and legs were on fire. His captors forcefully pulled him to his feet and laughed when his shaky knees gave out under him. Humiliation. Sherlock did not care, all that counted was the PAIN that wracked through his body in agonising waves. They brought him to a different room and sat him on a simple chair. Restraints were not necessary, even if he wanted to, he could not move, let alone fight his way through the guards. The ice cold stream of water hit him straight in the back, causing a spike of pain before his weakened body gave out and he let himself fall into the bliss of unconsciousness.
Upon waking up, he found himself back in his cell, freshly shaved, washed and in clean cloths. Granted, it was only a t-shirt and track pants, but he would take it for now. He had almost given up making sense of any of this erratic handling when Jake Moriarty made an appearance for the first time. Jim's older brother, his main target. That certainly explained the finer details of his treatment. If Jake was anything like his brother, he enjoyed the game much more than the kill. Moriarty taunted him with pictures of John: Going to Tesco's, walking down Baker Street, chatting with Sarah while leaving the clinic. Then Jake pulled out a lighter and held it to the photographs. The message was clear. We know where he is. We can get to him any time.
When Jake returned the next day, he brought water and food with him. Actual food, not the bland cereal bar he usually received from his handlers. Sherlock was weak, thirsty and starving. Jake set the food down in front of Sherlock and motioned for him to eat.
"Your good doctor has moved on. He does not care about you any longer, or maybe he never really has. He is living his life as if you never existed."
Sherlock wanted to scream at Jake, tell him that John did care about him, but forced himself to concentrate on the food instead.
"Even your brother has given up on you. You have been missing for a month now, and he has not activated a single of his agents to look for you. Does he really care so little for his baby brother? Maybe he is glad to be finally free of the responsibility. Did you know he calls you a nuisance?"
"You see, you are all alone here. Nobody is looking for you. Nobody cares what happens to you. But don't worry, I won't kill you. That would be boring, like my late brother used to say. I will keep you here until you have forgotten how the world outside this room looks, until you have forgotten your own name, consummated by sheer boredom your mind will turn on itself. Then I will return you to your dear doctor. Let him see what the cost of his happy life really was. Do you think he'll like that?" He made a dramatic pause. "If you think your intellect will get you out of here, forget it. I am not my brother; my games are a bit more on the physical side. I will take you apart, break you to the point of no repair. Just seeing you in such a pitiful state will surely break your Johnny's heart, won't it? And then, then I will kill you both, as a reminder for everyone out there that the name Moriarty still stands for something. You will help the Moriarty network back to power, Sherlock, how is that for irony?"
Sherlock glared at Jake with an icy stare. But he remained quiet. He would not give in to this lunatic's taunting. Not while he still had the strength to hold on.
Isolation, he never really had experimented much with that, but it was a powerful tool. He'd filed that in his mind palace for later reference. Since Jake's last visit he'd had no contact whatsoever with his captor or the guards. Sherlock almost wished the torture back, at least his mind could concentrate on the pain. Now his injuries were healing and he was bored out of his mind. Literally.
The footsteps in the hall stopped in front of his door and he heard the bolt being released. Finally some action, he thought, even though now he had to deal with an angry and agitated Jake. But only two of the guards entered the room, hauling him to his feet. This time they did not even bother to restrain him with cuffs. 'Interesting,' he thought. 'The tactic of playing the weakened victim is paying off. Impressionable idiots. Soon they will drop their guard enough for me to escape.'
Jake was waiting in the hallway, in front of an open door.
"Time to meet an old friend. Enjoy it while it lasts." With a devious smile he pushed Sherlock into John's cell and locked the door behind his two prisoners.
AN: Next chapter: the Reunion!