SPOILERS: for dialogues from season 2 from part 7 onwards.

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.


It had been a few hours and the case had reached the point where the main priority was working the phones. Even the officers who were supposed to go off duty had stayed behind to help. Their enthusiasm wasn't unexpected. James Moriarty wasn't just another criminal. But Lestrade couldn't help but wonder if they would have been equally enthusiastic if he had mentioned Sherlock's suspected kidnapping. He banished the disloyal thought as he saw Sally furiously gesticulating even though whoever it was at the other end couldn't possibly see her. Even Anderson had abandoned Forensics to help work through the mountain of background checks.

Sally slammed the phone down in frustration a moment later, snapping Lestrade out of his thoughts.

"Fuck!" she snapped, shaking her head tiredly at Lestrade. "All the Company backers are Chinese. Their lawyers keep bringing up a confidentiality clause when I try getting the backers to talk. It's ridiculous. They know that they aren't obliged to co-operate. One bloke pretended to not understand a word I was saying."

Lestrade was just about to placate her when he was interrupted by Anderson's loud, nasal voice-

"Bloody Hell! That's ridiculous. And how come you didn't report such disproportional consumption? Isn't this the sort of thing you are supposed to watch out for? They could have been up to…No… wait, we just want to know if it's illegal… that's great…that's just perfect. I need you to send over the numbers and the details. It's urgent!"

He put the phone down with a flourish. "That was the power company," he grinned unable to stop the triumphant smile spreading across his face. Lestrade was incongruously reminded of his terror-stricken expression during the second blast orchestrated by Moriarty. It had been adjacent to the school Anderson's daughter attended. "We are getting our warrant."


Sherlock didn't let a single muscle on his face twitch as Jim personally hooked him up with the camera and the microphone. Mycroft would spot the hidden camera in seconds though it was all but invisible within the cap of a pen that Jim inserted almost lovingly into his front jacket pocket. He slipped a fully loaded Smith and Wesson in Sherlock's inner coat pocket with a wink, "Just in case." Sherlock resisted the urge to grab the gun and just shoot the man with great difficulty. Jim seemed to sense this and smiled, "Don't forget the rules, Sherlock. And don't worry; I promise to keep the puppy alive till you get your hands on the information."

It was hard not to miss the hulking man who had been a constant presence at Jim's side. His absence and the elaborate preparations meant that he was to attempt this alone. He hadn't expected that.

"Where's Seb?" Sherlock smirked putting a special emphasis on the name.

"Oh, you naughty boy," Jim waggled his eyebrows at him before wrapping the blindfold himself. "Don't worry, if you're good you can have him too. He's a treat. Competent men are so hard to find. Sooner or later they all aspire to take control. Seb knows his place and is very good at keeping it." Sherlock could sense the manic smile even if he couldn't see Jim. "So will you, when you get back." With a last straightening sweep of his hands over the lapels of Sherlock's jacket, Jim stepped back with a flourish. "There. Off you go! And do hurry sweetheart. John doesn't have all day."


John leaned back against the wall where he had been unceremoniously dropped by Moran. It was uncomfortable but it was a hundred times better than being locked in the boot of the car which had brought them here. He hadn't uttered a word of protest, knowing it to be a pointless endeavour. He rested his throbbing shoulder against the wall and concentrated on his breathing, not wanting to dwell on what he had agreed to do. He was gagged and his hands and feet were tightly bound, his struggles only succeeding in tightening the bonds. Besides, below the bland suit, Moran was wearing a bulletproof jacket and was armed to the teeth. An escape attempt would be almost entirely pointless.

The room he was in had been a grand affair once upon a time, but the air of abandonment had faded its opulence considerably. The floorboards were discoloured and there was paint peeling off the walls, but the fire-place against the far wall was pristine marble. He concentrated on the coloured veins that ran through it, trying not to think of the crime he was being forced to commit.

The avoidance technique didn't help as Moran hauled in a large bag and after slipping on latex gloves began assembling a rifle at the closed window. An American M-21; so much for the handgun scenario he had imagined. It would be far more difficult to manoeuvre a 5 kg rifle if he wanted to make any sudden moves. When Moran had finished, he sat back on his haunches and considered John's bound figure. He smirked before moving forward and loosening the gag.

"If you make a peep, you're dead. I think you're smart enough to know that your best bet is to just see this through and go to prison for a long time. You'll be locked up, but you'll be alive at least. Now, we could have a long wait. We might as well have a chat, you and I."

John shifted against his bound hands, trying to find a comfortable position. Moran watched him patiently. The man had been calm and collected since he had come to fetch John from his padded prison, unmasked for the first time. Unlike your typical telly right-hand man, he didn't use unnecessary violence or bluster. He had calmly introduced himself to John before proceeding to truss him up like a chicken. John didn't remember a time when he had felt so powerless. He moved with unexpectedly feline grace for a man with so much bulk. His eyes were gunmetal green and just as cold.

John eyed the man and considered his options. "Who is it? The man I'm supposed to kill?"

"Does it matter?" Moran threw back carelessly. "It's a target…point and shoot; won't that make it easier?"

John huffed out an un-amused laugh, "Is that how you do it? How you could go so easily from being a soldier to being Jim's good little errand boy?" John wasn't Sherlock Holmes, but everything about the man screamed ex-army. John knew that it was a rather half-assed plan, but if he could provoke Moran enough to get badly beaten, he could probably avoid what came next.

Moran just smirked in response, "At least, it's a better deal than being Jim's sweet little bum-chum, don't you think?"

All blood left John's face at the remark. Moran's smile widened, "Oh, don't take it personally, Captain, you started it. Besides, there is no shame in being outwitted by someone like Jim. Now there's a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to go about getting it. You were a tool for sparring with Holmes, nothing more. You want me to feel ashamed for turning my back on my old life? You've got it backwards. I was a puppet in the army too; my strings being pulled by incompetent politicians fighting a pointless war we had no hope of winning. If I'm ashamed of anything it's of my past. Jim Moriarty is a great man. He plays to win and there is no shame in wanting to be on the winning side. You, on the other hand, have a penchant for picking losers."

John's face had tightened as he listened to Moran's little speech. "Think you have me all figured out, do you?"

"I can make out a few things on my own. Honourably discharged from duty in Afghanistan, a decorated war hero, discarded like rubbish when Queen and country was done with you. Then Jim comes along. He finds you and uses you for his little game. Then you choose a man like Holmes over Jim Moriarty? An ex-junkie who almost snuffed it for the next high? Now there's a loser with a capital L if I ever saw one. Don't look like that- the Boss has a dossier on him that goes years back. I can't understand his obsession with the weirdo. But that's an insane genius for you. Like attracts like."

John studied Moran's easy smile and revised his opinion of the man as he slipped his own face into a neutral mask. He was completely at the mercy of this man and, unlike Jim, Moran was a model of rational, pragmatic insanity. His chances for botching the shooting were looking slimmer by the second. He only had one card left to play. "Too bad the man you loved was busy fucking me for the last six months."

There were no visible tells in Moran's facial expressions but his arms clenched into fists at his side. "Nice try, Doc. But as you so cleverly figured out, I'd do anything for Jim Moriarty. And Jim, as usual, knows the best way to break you. Nothing I do to you will compare to killing an innocent man. But I'm going to enjoy making you take a life. I'm going to enjoy seeing you crumble."

As if on cue, the mobile on the floor buzzed between them. Moran picked it up, a slow grin lighting his features. "It's show time."


The unmarked car eventually deposited Sherlock two streets away from Mycroft's Mayfair home. He didn't anticipate having much trouble getting in. Sherlock had always had level 5 clearance to enter his brother's house. Mycroft had sarcastically drawled that it was necessary if only to prevent him from being arrested every time he decided to barge in without warning. The unspoken implication that Sherlock would need to come crawling back to his big brother had not been lost on him.

This had always been one of the primary reasons for his falling out with Mycroft. As far as the elder Holmes was concerned, Sherlock was incapable of behaving like an adult. In Mycroft's eyes, Sherlock would always remain the irresponsible child who had so foolishly OD'd. Since the incident and the enforced rehab, Sherlock found it almost unbearable to even be in the same room as his brother for any length of time. The patronising sense of disapproval, disappointment and frustration his brother radiated was positively stifling. He acted like it was his duty to be a constant living, breathing reminder of all of Sherlock's failures.

Their relationship hadn't always been like that, of course. Sherlock hadn't even known that he had nursed a hope of reconciliation until today. It was only when he was about to destroy any chance of it that he realised how much it was going to hurt. He paused before the numbered key-pad on the front gate, casting his eyes sideways to try and glimpse the invisible cameras he was sure were watching him.

There was a sudden, low whistle in his ear. "I must say, Sherlock. Your brother has style. Remember when I had someone break into that hovel you live in to plant Carl's shoes? You could do with taking a leaf out of Mycroft's book."

He chose to ignore the voice before punching in the appropriate code, the cascade of events it would set off already clear to him. His entrance wouldn't sound any official alarms but Mycroft would be notified at his cushy club as soon as Sherlock typed the key. He would message Sherlock wanting to know the reasons for the sudden and unexpected home invasion. This was where he regretted not carrying his phone. It was still sitting uselessly back at Baker Street. He would have appeased Mycroft with some scathing comment about wanting to examine the decadent curtains for a case and bought himself some time. The failure to reply would spike his brother's interest. He would then ask one of his automaton-assistants to forward to him the footage of Sherlock entering the house to ascertain that it was indeed his brother who had used the code. That was where the deception would end.

Because Mycroft would see him and instantly know that something wasn't right.

Sherlock knew that he had at most twenty minutes to complete his task; to find the files and leave un-accosted.

He was up the steps and through the front door in less than 15 seconds.

Pristine and pretentious were the two words that came to mind when looking around Mycroft's home. So much like the man himself. For all his misanthropic tendencies Sherlock had never been able to hold a candle to the way Mycroft had appeared to divorce himself from humanity at large. Just like the Diogenes, the House was Mycroft's shield against the world; his fortress and retreat. It looked exactly the same as the last time Sherlock had visited, years ago. There were no signs of progression, or of being lived in. All the methods that Sherlock would have employed to locate a secret entrance- visible scratches, dust patterns- were of no use to him. It was a good thing that he had a fair idea where the entrance to the cellar would be.

He didn't worry about there being any surveillance within the house. He had no time to be worried. With eighteen minutes to go, he slipped into his brother's personal kitchen, which was separated from the main kitchen placed at the back of the house. He hadn't wondered at the addition when he had seen it the first time. Mycroft had one true weakness and that was food. Like any true perfectionist, he had wanted to learn all the best ways to pleasure his own senses and had installed the second kitchen so as not to have to share space with the staff. Sherlock remembered his earliest experiments in baking, an endeavour which both of them had thoroughly enjoyed. The fully appointed kitchen was worthy of a five-star hotel and wasn't just a decoration. Mycroft was an excellent cook when he could be arsed to get up and do it.

Sherlock flipped on the lights and took a few seconds to determine that the layout of the kitchen was unchanged since his last visit. The entrance to the wine cellar was a hatch in the floor, tucked behind the cooking island. The cellar entrance was sure to be rigged with some kind of personal alarm.

Sherlock hesitated. This was his last chance to walk away. The point at which any pretence of innocence ended. He clutched the old ring, taking a deep breath before he yanked up the seemingly unprotected trapdoor and rapidly shimmied down the steel ladder.

The voice in his ear snickered. "My, we are in a hurry, aren't we? Don't really blame you. After all, the prize is worth the puzzle. You are making this look really easy though. Big brother is going to hate himself for trusting youuuu."

Sherlock ignored the voice completely. Those were his instructions so he resisted the itch to snipe back. The wine cellar looked exactly like any of the hundred others Sherlock had seen in his life. It was cool and a touch damp, but well illuminated once Sherlock found the light switch. The racks lined up around the walls were dusty, old and stocked with rare vintage specimens any connoisseur would have been proud to have in his collection. For an ordinary thief it was the perfect foil. No one would look beyond the fortune lying out ready for the picking. Sherlock confidently made his way through the bottle racks till he reached the far wall. It looked like the others at first glance, pale brown in colour and seemingly innocuous. But Sherlock had studied paint textures and, though the colour matched, the texture didn't. A single measured glance and a light touch proved that this wall had been painted recently. He removed a flexible gas-mask from his pocket and slipped it on. If Sherlock knew Mycroft at all, the entrance to the safe would be booby-trapped. Nothing fatal, but definitely something incapacitating; some sort of knock-out gas was his best guess.

Fifteen minutes.

He ran nimble fingers over the wall trying to find the invisible fault line or lever that would flip the opening. Thirty seconds…sixty seconds… he let loose a desperate growl.

"Look at you dance!" The breathy voice in his ear made Sherlock's skin crawl-

-just as his fingers hit a nearly invisible bump in the wall and there was a muted click. He had a split second warning and he flattened himself to the ground as the portion of the wall he was standing in front of swung outwards and upwards. He breathed slowly through the mask, counting up to ten. But there were no signs of a trap.

Warily, Sherlock slowly levered himself off the floor. He'd been expectant of motion sensors within the opening that would trigger a secondary response but, worryingly, nothing happened. Nestled behind the fake wall was an open cupboard lined with stainless steel shelves. It was illuminated from within and there was a singe black case on the middle shelf right opposite Sherlock's nose. It had a metallic texture and some sort of a digital combination lock. He could figure out the code later… or not. He could leave it for Jim. Ten minutes. It was time to leave.

He grasped the handle and tugged the case out of the cupboard. He rapidly made his way out of the cellar and up through the kitchen. He paused by the sitting room to shield the case from view within the folds of his coat, though he knew it would fool no one, least of all Mycroft. Sherlock was just about to open the front door when a low, placid voice stopped him.

"In a hurry to leave are we, Sherlock? Pity, I was about to pour you some tea. But then again, maybe not."

Sherlock froze as the voice in his ear gleefully chuckled, "Ooooh dear!"

(A special and whole-hearted thanks AGAIN to my unbelievable beta, lady_t_220 . Without her input and corrections, this part of the story would have been a mess.

And to to the readers who are still following the story, your encouragement is what doesn't let me give up. Thank you all!)