Jim wasn't used to going to others for help. Honestly, he'd always detested it. Asking for help meant admitting that he wasn't good enough to do something on his own, and that got his blood boiling beneath his dark eyes and overly pleasant, fake smile even before he set foot in 221b Baker Street. He was still trying to figure out just why he was even going through with this. Why was John so important? It wasn't a sex thing. At least, it shouldn't be. Their little fling the week prior had been completely opportunistic on Jim's part, and honestly he'd needed it. It had been like finally getting to an itch he couldn't scratch. One that had formed when the assassin had leapt in front of a bullet meant for him and subsequently spent time in surgery, life on the line, because of it. It wasn't just blind faith that had caused it to happen either, as blind faith wouldn't have had John walking out after a night of fantastic sex. It was all getting under Jim's skin. His apparent inability to understand why John Watson had him scrambling about like some dying bird with its head cut off in a race to get to the man before Mycroft could kill him was utterly frustrating in more ways than one.

Firstly, or course, was that there was no logical reason that Jim could see for what he was doing. For the cold grip of panic he'd felt for a few seconds before rage had quickly settled in its place when he'd first learned of John's kidnapping. There was no logic to it at all. With no information at risk that could actually be of detriment to him, for all intents and purposes Jim should just let John rot in whatever dark little room he was being kept in. Second, and this was a large portion of his frustration born from his own confusion, he was going to ask Sherlock Holmes for help. That was nearly the most idiotic thing he'd ever done in his life. Not only would he be giving up an important ace in the hole by having to reveal that John was an assassin for this to even work, but Jim would also be losing a touch of his pride.

All in all, he wasn't looking forward to the little meeting he'd set up. That was even before he had a gun barrel pressed right between his eyes almost as soon as he waltzed through the doors of Sherlock's flat. The criminal's eyes narrowed slightly though his lips only barely twitched downwards in response to this new development.

"Snipers?" Sherlock questioned, but was immediately continuing before Jim could even think to answer. "No. Obvious signs of stress. Odd. This was spur of the moment. You haven't planned this. Of course there is every possibility you've only manipulated your appearance to throw me off the scent, but I doubt you'd use that trick twice. At least on me. That'd be far too boring, far too predictable. So, the real question is; why are you coming to me for help when I have every right to pull this trigger?"

"John's been kidnapped," Jim deadpanned, the usual playfulness missing from his tone. His smile had turned cruel and cold to mirror his dark gaze. "By your brother with the intent to torture him for information."

"Like you did," Sherlock stated, but the surprise had flickered across the detective's features for a fraction of a second too long. Jim had seen in. The Irishman had yet to move away from the gun pressed against his forehead, and it was obvious that he had no intentions of moving despite the danger that he seemed to be faced with.

"No," Jim drawled in response. "I didn't kidnap Johnny-boy."

Sherlock's expression darkened. "Of course you did. Who else would want to kidnap John – my brother aside."

"Russians, apparently." The criminal answered, and grinned. "The Iceman's not the only naughty one. Johnny-boy's a world class assassin. Best of the best. The Markstein brothers? That was his work, Sherlock. All of that was his work."

"I knew that you were insane, but your mania has reached an entirely different level altogether." Sherlock stated, but his voice had an edge to it. Gotcha, Sherly.

"Just listen. I've known about Johnny for a couple months now. Saved his life, actually. Then my former sniper decided to sick dogs of the Mob our little assassin, and they kidnapped him. He was injured, I found him, and long story short I took the blame to ensure Johnny's little secret stayed that way. Even gave you a sniper to find so you'd stop looking."

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said slowly, obviously starting to piece things together. "Why save his life, though?"

"Where's the fun in having someone killed if you can't order it yourself?" Jim questioned in response, pouting for a moment before growing serious again. "These are just the details, Sherlock. Focus on what's important."

Sherlock nodded once. The motion slow as if he didn't quite want to believe what conclusions his mind was coming to. "My brother. If what you're saying is true, then he's kidnapped John because he's likely figured out his apparent profession as well as his involvement with you."

"Yes. Took him straight off the streets last week." Jim agreed, then his lips pursed. "I've only just noticed." The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Even with all of this. Why come to me? Why tell me any of this?" Sherlock finally asked, and the gun had yet to waver. "This would be an excellent plot to 'burn the heart' out of me, wouldn't it? Have my brother kill my flatmate, who's apparently an assassin that has recently been working with my enemy. Why would you ever be so desperate as to risk coming here simply because of John?"

When Jim didn't answer, Sherlock cocked the gun before his icy eyes widened a fraction. "Of course…It's obvious now. The stress, the lack of planning, the desperation that's lead you to seek the aid of the man you've pledged to kill…Sentiment is a very dangerous thing, and a very powerful motivator, isn't it?"

Jim wasn't thrilled with Sherlock's conclusions. "Sentiment?" he scoffed. "I don't give a damn about John Watson. I don't like it when my things are stolen." There was no possible way that he had even the slightest glimmer of emotional attachment to John. He didn't feel anything about anybody…except John, apparently.

"Are we going to get Johnny back or not?" Jim questioned, voice barely restrained from becoming a snarl. "And get that lighter out of my face, Sherlock. I gave it to Hope; don't think I wouldn't recognize it. What are you going to do? Burn off my hair?" Sherlock only smirked smugly as he pulled the gun back while pulling the trigger. A small flame came from the barrel before he tossed it aside without paying much attention to where it clattered to the ground.

"Of course. As I said, sentiment is a very powerful motivator." Sherlock stated.

Jim grinned, though it was just as cold as his smile had been. "Just so."

John wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been locked in the hell he'd been thrown into. He hadn't been released from the chair in the time he'd been gone, he'd been given only enough food to keep him from starving to death, and it was only getting worse. He had lacerations and burns covering his skin, and the light above him that never turned off was slowly starting to eat away at him. It was a simple thing. It was something that most people wouldn't think would become part of the torture, but there it was. Harsh, clinical fluorescents buzzing constantly and never giving him the peace of darkness. Never giving him the opportunity to get rid of the feeling of being watched constantly that was starting to make his skin crawl.

When the door to the room opened once again, he didn't move from where he was slumped. His head and upper body leaned forward as far as it could –not far. Head bowed and eyes closed. Breathing deep. He wasn't asleep, but he was trying to at least focus. Things had long since started blurring together for him, and the assassin was trying to separate events and get a grip of his own mind. He refused to break here. He refused to let Mycroft get inside his head. Focused at the assassin was on his task, already having tensed in expectation of some new form of torture, he didn't recognize who had walked into the room.

"This is rather unexpected," a painfully familiar baritone stated, voice dispassionate and disinterested. Cold, even. John's eyes flew open and his head snapped up in surprise.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, voice hoarse.

"Looking at the facts, however, it's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. The detective was regarding John coolly. John blinked as his mind raced. Had Mycroft told him? Had Sherlock figured it out for himself? Why had he even come to see John? The assassin's already pale and battered appearance lost yet another shade of color. Was Sherlock going to torture him now?

Sherlock's eyes were flicking over his body carefully as the detective took in the wounds John had amassed during his time locked in the room. "Signs of sexual activity from prior to your incarceration. Likely why my brother has obviously stopped any attempts to extract information in favor of more…brutal methods. How long have you been romantically involved with James Moriarty?"

"I've been through this with him," John replied, voice quiet due to it being so hoarse. It was easy to imagine why that might be considering the state of his body. He'd only started screaming in the last couple sessions. At least consecutively, because the cattle prod had been an awful experience…

"Tell me." Sherlock insisted.

"One night."

Sherlock's brows rose. "Interesting."

"What do you want from me?" John demanded as best he could given circumstances.

"You've lied to me since the day we met." The detective stated.

"Sherlock—" John was cut off as the room he'd been in since he'd woke up from his drugging was plunged into darkness for the first time. The lights had gone out. The buzz of the fluorescents gone. John struggled to adapt by allowing his other senses to take over for his lost sight as he was almost disoriented by the sudden change since he'd been exposed to nothing but the bright lights from above him for so long. He couldn't see anything, and when he felt the light touch to his arm he flinched involuntarily before realizing that it had to be Sherlock touching him. After all, the man was the only one who had been in the room with him with the power cut. Was that what was happening?

"What are you doing?" John asked as he felt Sherlock begin tugging at the restraints. A few seconds, and the deft fingers of the detective had unlocked one wrist and was moving to the other.

"Freeing you, obviously." Sherlock said in the 'you're being an idiot, John, observe' tone of his. The rest of the restraints were removed before Sherlock was helping John to his feet. The assassin could hardly stand on his own. He hadn't exactly had cause to for quite awhile. Thankfully, Sherlock was there to slip a supportive arm around his waist to hold him upright as he was steered by the taller man. Before he quite knew it he was being taken out into the hall which was lit only by dim emergency lights. It was obvious that there was a commotion going on. Probably because the power had been cut, and that likely wasn't just a coincidence.

In limited light again, Sherlock slid his coat off his shoulders before helping John into it. The thing was too long for him, and he had broader shoulders that Sherlock, but it was something to cover his bare skin with. After quickly fastening a few buttons, Sherlock's arm was back around John's waist as the detective lead him through the halls. John had no clue where he was, so it was likely for the best that Sherlock was the one leading. As they moved along John couldn't help but stare up at Sherlock. Utterly shocked by this all as the other knew what he was and who he'd been taking contracts from. Who he'd slept with.

"Regardless of what you do for a living, John, you are still my only friend and my flatmate. You've been given countless opportunities to end my life, but you've yet to do so. Rather, you save it. On a fairly regular basis." Sherlock glanced down at him, and John could only blink up in stunned silence. They continued on through the facility John had been kept in. It took awhile before someone finally ran into them. Security. Two of them. Armed. They looked from Sherlock to John before going for their guns, but Sherlock was quicker. The detective passed a gun to John with the cover of the coat and, even injured, John had the weapon up and aimed. His hand shook only from the cold and pain. Two quick shots and the men were both dead regardless. Sherlock didn't flinch at the sight or sounds as they continued on. The assassin felt better with the gun in his hand. The familiar adrenaline high of a kill creeping up on him and helping to ease the pain and give him more energy.

"He loves you," Sherlock stated once they had managed to get to some stars to climb. Several flights of stairs. John looked to the detective sharply, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What are you—"

"You see but you do not observe," Sherlock interrupted, not looking at the shorter blond. "Moriarty came to me for help once he'd realized that my brother had taken you. He did not plan our encounter, he did not have any means to prevent himself from being taken into custody or otherwise. Obviously stressed, and since we'd agreed on getting you away from Mycroft he continuously refers to you as 'John'."

John blinked. "He doesn't –"

"Observe." Sherlock told him, and the pair lapsed into silence. John thinking over what Sherlock had told him, and the other obviously more focused on getting them out in one piece. They got out of the main building and John found that it was light outside, only getting into afternoon. A hiss escaped him as he shielded his eyes at the harsh brightness, or at least bright to the assassin. A black, unmarked car pulled up alongside them and the back doors opened. Sherlock pushed John into the vehicle before sliding into the front passenger seat. The driver pulled away and was off. The assassin wasn't paying too much else beyond the fact that he now had a very familiar form hovering over him and pawing at the coat to get it open.

"Jim—"

"Shut. Up." The consulting criminal snarled in response, and John's jaw shut with an audible click of his teeth. Idly, he wondered if he'd even managed to get out one sentence that day without a genius interrupting him. That thought vaporized when Jim got the coat opened. Dark, almost black eyes were scouring over the assassin's battered body carefully. It took John several moments too long to realize that the man was assessing the damage. After a long moment, the criminal nodded to himself as if coming to a conclusion before buttoning the coat up again. A phone appeared in Jim's hand seemingly out of thin air.

"Drive faster," Jim ordered, and hit a button on his phone's touch screen. John blinked as he tried to figure out what was going on. He was tired, starved, in pain, and generally just sick of enclosed spaces. Even he caught on to what Jim had done when the other's lips twisted into a sick, sadistic grin when a loud explosion sounded behind them. Naturally, John was trying to look and see the damage only to find that several explosions were going off and the facility he'd been in was on fire. The assassin blinked slowly before looking back to Jim. The Irishman seemed incredibly pleased with himself, but the cold rage behind his eyes was obvious to John.

He loves you.

That was what Sherlock had said. He thought over Jim's careful study of his body and wounds, then of the phone. Had the man really blown up the facility just because he was tortured there? That seemed off. Actually, the explosions sounded exactly like Jim but causing them because of John?

As if hearing the assassin's line of thinking, Jim scoffed and glanced at John. "Ever heard of a distraction, Johnny-boy?" the criminal mocked. "Iceman won't be worried about us when his little facility is up in flames." A small sound from the front seat told John that Sherlock was just biting back a comment at Jim's apparent need to justify his actions. Probably for the best that the detective finally learned how to employ the use of an internal filter as Jim was still his enemy, and the man was still dangerous. John doubted he'd be able to do much before Jim could. That wasn't to say that he still wouldn't put a bullet in the criminal's skull if he ever hurt Sherlock.

"You two are going to be dropped off at Baker Street," Jim stated after a time of mutual silence. The man's attention was on his phone, John was trying to keep himself from staring at the criminal, and Sherlock was just looking out his passenger side window silently. Or at least, he had been looking out the window silently.

"No. That's idiotic." Sherlock said, now piping up and looking back at the two men in the back seats. The ice colored gaze flicking between both of them. "Mycroft will be looking for John, and the most obvious place to look is the flat."

"Hospitals are out of the question," Jim reminded. "Where else is he supposed to go?"

"He's right here," John reminded, speaking up with his hoarse voice. The assassin was ignored.

"One of your flats. Mycroft doesn't know half of their locations, and I trust that he won't come to any greater harm given your inclinations towards my flatmate." Sherlock answered Jim coolly. The criminal bristled.

"Daddy's had enough of that theory of yours, Sherlock." Jim's accent had thickened with his anger. John just sighed softly and tuned out the two grown men bickering about him. He was too tired to actively participate in any of the debate. The two geniuses had just started ironing out details, finally, when John dozed off. Unaware, it was a turn that had John's limp and pliant form falling against Jim's. The assassin's head resting on the criminal's shoulder with the rest of his body pressed into Jim's side. John didn't realize that the criminal had been in the middle of a biting retort when he'd trailed off and looked down at the sleeping man pressed into him, or that said criminal never did finish what he was saying as his attention was diverted elsewhere…or that Sherlock only smirked smugly before turning back to look out his own window. The rest of the ride was filled only with John's steady, deep breathing.

Hello! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Definitely going to be wrapping up soon, and I already have an idea for a new fic…It will likely be a Mystrade pairing but believe me when I say it is an AU with a giant twist if I actually follow through with it.

Have a good day

Reaperess ^_^