SPOILERS: for dialogues from season 2 from this part onwards.

WARNING for implied non-explicit non-con in this part.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.

Summary:An AU, where John is Jim Moriarty's fiancé. He finds out about Jim's job and agrees to testify against him, and is put into protective custody as a result, under the alias Victor Trevor. Sherlock meets Victor, sparks fly. Written for a truly unique prompt on the shkinkmeme; so credit for inspiration goes to the OP.

Author's notes:This was something I was working on before Reichenbach happened and temporarily derailed it. The story is now on the verge of completion. This will be a multi-chaptered fic and I will be posting atleast one part weekly. My first real attempt at S/J, so please be gentle.


John was on the padded floor trying to draw huge breaths as fresh air flooded the room. He had heard the hissing from an overhead vent but he'd had nowhere to escape to. He had tried drawing shallow breaths and then simply holding his breath, but he could keep that up only for so long. When the pungent odour had finally hit him, he could not help feeling suffocated. Just as suddenly, the hissing had stopped and he could smell clean air again. He had no idea what the point of the whole exercise had been, but as he heard the click of his cell's lock, he knew he was about to find out.

The door swung open to admit the same masked man who had escorted him here. Not that John had the faintest idea where 'here' was. He hoped Sherlock was being held somewhere in the vicinity and would have a better idea of their location. He sat up quickly, unwilling to show any weakness. The man said nothing as he hauled John to his feet and snapped on a pair of rigid handcuffs, fastening his hands in front of him. He was then marched out of the basement room and escorted to a lift which took them from their current level, up to the eighth floor. He followed the man without protest as he was lead to a room at the end of a corridor. The man silently accompanied him inside.

John's eyes barely stopped to register the luxurious room he was ushered into, before they settled on the figure of his triumphant ex-fiancé, lounging on a plush chair. The room otherwise seemed to be empty. He wondered at the surge of hatred he felt the sight of Jim; at how his feelings could have undergone such a monumental change in the span of a day.

Jim's smile was positively lecherous as he studied John. "You can talk, Johnny dear."

John was through playing games. Right now he was itching with the urge to break something (preferably Jim's jaw). But he would settle for the obnoxiously delicate coffee table. No sooner had he made a move towards Jim than he felt a strong hand wrapping around his neck. A heavy palm held him in place with brute force before he felt the nudge of a muzzle in the small of his back. He stilled instantly, biting out through gritted teeth. "You win, Jim. But if you expect my co-operation, I need to see Sherlock. RIGHT NOW."

Jim widened his eyes in a mocking portrayal of a scolding parent. "You really need to keep your voice down, John," he whispered. "He rarely sleeps." He gestured towards the four-poster bed which had been obscured by hangings on three sides, and which John had previously ignored. His heart stuttered as he saw a fully clothed Sherlock laid out on the sheets, to all intents and purposes fast asleep.

Jim sauntered over to the supine form as John watched helplessly, pinned by the gun to his back. The consulting criminal perched on the bed next to Sherlock's hip, his fingers toying gently with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. "Looks like an angel, doesn't he? And I didn't even have to lay a finger on him so far. He was so obedient, even swallowed the pill himself. All for you, Johnny."

John gritted his teeth, feeling nauseated at the once familiar gesture Jim had always used before initiating sex. His earlier episode was starting to make a sick sort of sense. He looked up to find Jim studying him calculatingly. "Alright Jim, you made your point. What do you want?"

"I want you to shoot someone for me. By shoot I mean kill, of course."

"No."

One of Sherlock's black shirt buttons neatly slipped out of its hole and Jim's hand slid down to toy with a second. The thread of restraint that had been holding John together snapped. He threw himself forward with an inarticulate cry, not caring if the man holding him decided to go ahead and shoot. His captor merely tightened his hold on John's neck however, and within a few seconds John was gasping for air as, for the second time that evening, he came close to blacking out.

"Easy, Seb. Plenty of time to kill him later."

Sherlock hadn't even stirred at Jim's touch.

"He's drugged. It was the only way to get him into bed." Jim stated, accent lilting in that same mocking, parental tone again. He teased a third button open, exposing a swathe of pale skin. "Last chance, John. Feel free to refuse. As far as I'm concerned, the situation is a win-win. If it helps, the man I want you to kill is not a very nice man."

A competitor then, though John was finding it very hard to picture an adversary other than Sherlock who could pose a challenge to the consulting criminal. It was easier if he assumed that the man he was supposed to kill was evil, and he shuddered inwardly as the enormity of his assumption hit him. He was already considering it; considering shooting a man in cold blood. All he knew was that he wanted Jim's slimy hands off Sherlock. There was nothing he wouldn't do if it ensured Jim would never touch Sherlock again.

It didn't make any bloody sense. Why him? A man like Jim must have dozens of assassins at his beck and call. That was when he had his second epiphany.

"You need me to take the fall for this killing."

"Very good, John. Guess Sherlock's rubbed off on you more than I did. But then you never really knew me." Jim's hand strayed lower.

"I'll do it." John said abruptly, eyes closed. His breath was heaving as if he'd run a mile. "Leave Sherlock alone. If I do this you'll let him go, Jim. That's my only condition. I'll do whatever you want."

Jim's answering smile couldn't possibly have been wider. "Good choice, Johnny. Tell you what; I'm feeling a bit generous today. And I did promise you a date." He winked and got off the bed, moving towards the door. "You have till morning to enjoy Sherlock's company. Seb?" he called over his shoulder. The man who was holding John kneed him viciously from behind, toppling John roughly to the floor and leaving him sprawled face-down on the rug as Moriarty took his leave. The door thumped shut, the click of the lock snapping closed with a definite sense of finality as John was left alone in the room with Sherlock.

Jim hummed tunelessly as he walked towards the Control room. "That's two for two," he threw back at his right-hand man who had now taken off his mask. "I think we are quite on schedule for tomorrow."

That was the problem with too much intelligence, Seb thought. Too much theory, too little practice. He had to speak his mind. "You're going to give that man a gun? That's insane, Jim. I can do it. Why do we need to take such a stupid risk?" Sebastian knew a thing or two about cornered soldiers. He had recognized the look in John Watson's eyes. Even with Holmes as a bargaining chip, Watson was dangerously unpredictable.

"You worry too much, Seb. You'll see. By the time John has to take the shot, he'll do so quite willingly. The man who does this will be hunted down eventually and I would rather have John killed than captured."

"I don't understand."

Jim gave an exasperated eye-roll. "You will be accompanying him for this one, Seb. As soon as he takes the shot, you will kill John Watson."


Lestrade had been so good about not smoking. He had been truly trying to cut down completely. It had been six months since his last cigarette and even that had been Sherlock's fault. He knew that this time it would be doubly hard to give up. He puffed out the smoke from his twentieth fag of the day and decided that lung cancer would just give him an early release.

The meeting with the Chief Superintendent had been an unqualified disaster. The man had yelled for an interminable amount of time and Lestrade had had no choice but to listen. Their key witness was gone; that in itself made the information provided by him not just unreliable but effectively useless. John had to be physically present in order to give evidence. Unfortunately his presence or absence was a moot point at the moment, as they were no closer to catching Moriarty than before. Lestrade had been expected to justify the expenditure for protecting John, his reasons for losing him and cancelling the earlier operation and his inability to find him. All while Sherlock, who was responsible for creating this mess in the first place, had buggered off to God knows where and wasn't answering his phone. Typical!

It was late when Lestrade finally reached his flat. All the thoughts of the long hot shower he intended to take flew out of his head when he unlocked his front door and stepped inside. His first reaction was to reach for his phone, but the strange girl who had so far been making herself at home on his sofa, jumped up in fright. "Don't call no one. Please! I'm not breakin' in, I swear!"

The voice stopped him. Jesus! She was just a kid, though she hardly looked it. One sweeping look around his flat ascertained that everything was untouched. The girl was still looking uncertainly at him, biting her lower lip. Up close, she didn't look a day older than fifteen. If he had been Sherlock, he would have noticed the freshly washed face and the patched up coat and discerned the poor attempt to be taken seriously. How the hell did she get in without picking the-

"He gave me a key. I swear, I didn't break nothin'. He was supposed to contact me this morning and, if he didn't, he told me I had to come straight here." She stopped and swallowed as if not knowing whether to trust Lestrade. "It means Mister Holmes is in trouble."


John had always wanted to be a doctor. His giving nature had been a huge factor in making that decision but, most importantly, the attraction of the job was in its simplicity. At the core of it, if you were honest, being a doctor had very few grey areas. If there is a sick patient, you have to treat him to the best of your ability. Simple. Selecting Surgery had simplified it even more. Signing up as an Army medic had led many of his friends to question him about his support for a pointless war, but none of those questions held weight when he had to patch up an eighteen year old kid, bleeding out into the sand as mortar shells and rifle fire whistled around him. It had been downright easy. There had been no moral ambiguities when he had to act. Not until now.

They had left the handcuffs on. The rigid cuffs were not a design he had seen before. Breaking his fingers wouldn't be any help. He scooted closer to the bed and awkwardly measured Sherlock's pulse, checking his vitals and trying to ignore the tremor in his other hand.

The Detective's heart-rate was slow but steady, a common side-effect of barbiturate intake. He sighed as his own pulse approached normal for the first time since seeing the unconscious man. Sherlock's breathing was even, lips slightly parted in sleep, dead to the world.

John tried to imagine it - a world without Sherlock Holmes - but his imagination came up short. He had voluntarily walked into this death-trap for Sherlock. He would do anything for Sherlock; die for him, kill to protect him if need be. He shivered at the implications of Jim's threat; one which went far beyond simply killing the Detective. He would be damned if he sat by and let Jim have his way. In the dead of the night, as he sat helplessly looking at Sherlock, he was forced to admit to himself what he had so far ignored. Sometime between beating up counterfeiters and making the second cup of tea, he had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He did up the open buttons of Sherlock's shirt, fingers shaking as he contemplated his deal with the devil. Jim had played his cards well.

If Jim was telling the truth, Sherlock had followed him here. He was here for John, not Jim. This is the time you picked to cheat on your Wife? The man did not possess an ounce of self-preservation. He wished Sherlock were awake so he could yell at him, punch him…snog him senseless.

John shook his head as he decided to look at his options pragmatically. Jim expected him to shoot someone. If John refused, Jim's man would shoot him on the spot as Jim would have had absolutely no reason to keep him alive. That would leave Sherlock alone and helpless in the clutches of a mad-man, who would... He couldn't abandon Sherlock like that.

Now that he had agreed, they would have to arm him. Jim would still have Sherlock as a hostage, but the gun would be in John's hand. He could botch the shot, he could just injure the mark who would probably be heavily protected. And you think Jim would not have thought of that? His common-sense whispered back sardonically. There were too many unknown factors. He would have to think about the shooting when he actually came to it.

Truth was, John had only agreed as it would gain them the one thing they really needed in order for a rescue- Time.

He looked at his wristwatch to find that the night was almost over. Was it just yesterday at dawn that he had kissed Sherlock for the first time? Whatever the final outcome, it was very likely that he wouldn't survive tomorrow. He desperately wished he could talk to Sherlock one last time. Jim had mocked him by leaving him alone only while the man was insensate. John levered himself on the bed and scooted closer to Sherlock's body, looping the cuffed circle of his arms around the still form so that Sherlock was pressed against him. He could feel Sherlock's heart thudding through his back.

He didn't even realise when he drifted off to the reassuring beat.

To be continued...

(I really apologise to all of you for the delay but I just started a new job and it's in day and night shifts which leaves me completely exhausted during waking hours. Need some time for my body clock to adjust. Writing is the only thing keeping me cheerful as of now... moral of the whining is that I'll try not to delay so much the next time and thank you for your patience.)