Playing the Fool

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Chapter Eleven

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The metal was cold against John's temple, and it sent a shiver through his bundled form. He struggled to discern a figure in the thick shadows of the living room, but his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the gloom. Instead, he slowly shifted so that his limbs weren't hampered by the blanket and that the barrel of the pistol was now pointed at the centre of his forehead.

"What do you want?" John asked calmly, his voice hoarse from his fevered dream. He was surprised at his own bravery, for nothing was stopping this person from beating him into a compliant pile. His eyes tracked the movement of the gun as he went to sit upright. It followed with trained precision - his opponent was not just some thief in the night.

An annoying laugh was all that answered his question, and John wondered why he even bothered to be civil anymore. From the pitch of the laughter, he ascertained that his assailant was most definitely a woman. The dim light from the blinds confirmed this, for John could make out shoulder length blond hair and an angular face. Her arm was outstretched patiently and John was impressed that she managed to hold the heavy pistol steady for so long.

John could see thin lips curl into a sinister smile. "Let me tell you the rules of this game Doctor Watson. Wake the sleeping couple above us, and they will be sleeping forever; try to escape me and I'll cure that fever of yours with some fast-acting medicine of my own design."

"Who are you?"

"If I told you, it would ruin things." John noted that for a crazy person, she made her statements quite clear. Everything she said was clipped and to the point. "Now get up, we're leaving."

John usually asked 'where' at this point in the abduction, but after the fourth time he had learned that it was futile to ask such things. Instead he opted for the seldom asked, "Why?"

The woman's brow knitted together in slight confusion. "I'm pointing a loaded gun at you. If you want to live you'll listen to my demands." She shook the weapon as if to emphasize it's existence.

John stood and took the time to fold Matilda's blanket while he talked. "All right, fine. Who am I to argue with a gun? I can only assume from all the theatrics that this has something to do with Sherlock?" Why was he so calm? There was a little voice in the back of his mind that was scared as all hell, but a stronger force was squashing it. Maybe it was the military training, the fever, or the fact that he was just too tired to care about what happened next; more probably it was the shock, and a part of him still hoped he was dreaming.

The blonde lowered her pistol and hissed, "If I weren't intent on being quiet I would have just shot you in the hand for your gall. You will follow me because your friend's life depends upon it - does that satisfy your curiosity Doctor?"

"So it is Sherlock then."

Pure fury rolled off the woman in waves. She wasn't used to her hostages talking back. "Yes! Now move!"

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There was a van waiting for them outside and John stumbled towards it feeling the calmness from earlier start to wane. What was the purpose of his kidnapping? Surely he was being used as a tool to harm Sherlock in some way – perhaps lure him some place, or restrict his options like that time at the pool. Was it wise to disappear into that sleek black vehicle? He would only be causing Sherlock more trouble in the end...

John wanted to try and subdue the woman escorting him in order to take her gun; but there was something about her that made him hesitate. Her muscles were coiled, as if waiting for John to strike. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought she were hunting for a reason to hurt him. Bright brown eyes scanned the streets for witnesses, before the gun came back and levelled at John's head. She gestured with her available hand for the doctor to get into the van.

John stared at her, assessing his options.

She didn't like that.

"Get in or I will march back in there and leave a crime scene that even Sherlock Holmes won't want to see."

So much malice in such a compact form; John wondered where it stemmed from. He got into the van, forcing his mind to stop coming up with horrible scenarios as he did so.

Two burly thugs were waiting for him. One of them snarled for him to put his hands behind his back and unwound a length of stiff black rope. It was enough to cause John's composure to snap. He couldn't allow himself to be bound or there would be no hope of getting himself out of this conundrum if it started to go sour. His eyes widened and he made to back out of the vehicle, but the rear doors slammed shut behind him and there was no handle to open them again.

He had just enough time to swear under his breath before the two hoodlums jumped him and forced him to the ground. At first John started to thrash about, but after awhile he realized that it was useless to waste his energy resisting when there was no chance of escape at this juncture. A bag was forced over his head and his arms were cruelly bound behind his back so that his shoulders ached. He kicked at his captors till they left him alone in the corner to try and get comfortable. Every so often one would say something to the other in what sounded like Russian.

The rest of the trip was spent in terrifying silence, in which John tried to memorize the turns of the route they were taking. After half an hour of this, he realized that such things were futile. He wasn't Sherlock, and a part of him doubted even he could work out an exact location with so few details.

They dragged him out of the van eventually (after what felt like an hour) and force-marched him down paved terrain. John strained his ears to pick up any environmental sounds that would give him a clue as to his whereabouts. He was met with the distant sound of a police siren and what he thought might be a boat. The dim light through the bag was very orange, so they could be somewhere industrial...? Near the Thames?

His thoughts were jarred by a cruel shove into sudden darkness.

The sound of a door being slammed shut behind him made him jump, and a hand touching his scalp made him duck and try to weave out from beneath it. The bag was ripped off his head, along with several of his hairs, and he looked around blearily, allowing his eyes to adjust to the intermittent brightness of a flickering hall light.

The house was old - very old. It smelt of wood-rot and severe water damage. The carpets were so stained that it was impossible to tell what colour and type they originally were. John wondered faintly if there was even a carpet at all, and not just bits of grime and debris all crushed together. There was a dilapidated stairway leading upwards which took up half of the long hallway, but John was pushed past that and into the narrow corridor beyond.

The thugs from the van departed from him at this point to disappear into conjoining rooms. When John went to follow them his his eyes, the woman grabbed him by the back of his head and pointed his face forwards. "I wouldn't look around much if I were you. Not very many pleasant things to see."

She was right. The roof creaked above and did little to filter out the carnal noises that set the hair on the back of John's neck on end. He was trying to ignore it as they passed a group of very skinny girls huddled in the corner of what looked like a derelict parlour. They were barking like dogs and it took John a second to realize that that was just the sound of their distorted laughter. They were snorting lines of cocaine.

Girls – half his age, snorting cocaine.

John wanted to be sick.

There were others in the room passed out on mouldy sofas - vagrants by the look of them. Cheap beer and abandoned clothing added to their bedding and their smell. John couldn't tell if this place was a brothel, a hostel or a safe house for a drug ring at this point.

As John was propelled into a back room, he nearly stumbled over a man covered with meth sores that was sitting in a crumpled pile in the hall. He could have been dead for all John knew, since he couldn't see the rise and fall of the man's narrow chest beneath the grubby shirt. His eyes were open, unblinking and hollow. They attracted John, and he found he couldn't look away.

They brushed past him and despite the hand pushing his head forward, John looked back and saw that those eyes were now fixed on the back of his escort's head. There was a frightening expression gleaming within those dark depths that made the doctor look away.

John entered a brightly lit room that was better furnished than the rest of the house. It was a large study with several mismatched armchairs and even a bookshelf packed with assorted binders. Behind a heavy desk by the far wall sat a well-dressed man around John's age with sandy hair. He was talking to a fat man across from him who was wearing an expensive fur-coat. Both of them looked up when John and his unfavourable companion walked in.

"Jamie, I see you've brought the Captain."

John was slightly taken aback at the title. He was so used to being addressed as 'Doctor' that his old rank was jarring. He suspected that this man might have a military background, and was a little proud of the deduction.

The woman lowered her gun for the first time all night and set it in a holster off her hip. "Nearly gave me the slip when he ducked out of his flat. I thought he was on to me when he crawled out of the window..." The blonde shut the door and looked to the man with the fur. "I see Milverton made it."

The fat man shook a finger. "This is the last place I want to be."

"Is anyone going to explain why I'm being treated as a hostage?" John interrupted. His voice was cross since he didn't like the fact that these two well-to-do men were next door to a bunch of blitzed out teens. "I would say that I'm content to listen to you chat, but really I'm not. I don't think anyone would be after an abduction in the middle of the night." He felt as rude as Sherlock all of a sudden, and he wondered where the insolence had come from. He was tired and sick, and he felt like an animal led to slaughter. If they were going to kill him - or torture him for that matter, he hoped he didn't have to stand around with his arms like this for too long.

His outburst made the man behind the desk laugh. "A bit brave aren't you? I've heard that you were an excellent soldier, but looking at you... you wouldn't think it, would you?" He stood and strolled over to John, circling him as if he were a prize.

"You're the only thing keeping me alive at this point." His tone was polite, almost apologetic. "Just you being here made it so that we could relax for the first time in months, so I think a little missed sleep is worth it - for our sake at least." He stretched and then patted John on the back.

"For some reason Moriarty has gone mad and let his plaything take us out one by one. The three of us are the only one's left in a circle that once could bring Britain to it's knees. We were told not to involve friends and family... but I don't think I'll be following that man's rules anymore."

John took a deep breath. "You can't keep me here forever."

"No. I know you would never last long in captivity Captain. I only need you here now so I can borrow time and get myself out of your friend's net. Three times he's cornered me, and I don't think I can survive a fourth."

"Who are you people?"

The question made the group pause and look at one another. The sudden tension didn't sit well with the doctor. It felt like there was a conversation going on through body language alone that John couldn't begin to comprehend. After a moment, the man smiled and turned John around so that he could get at the bonds around his wrists. A knife came out of nowhere, frightening John a little, before it made quick work of the taut ropes.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran." He offered a hand, but John didn't take it. To save face, Moran fluttered the hand in the direction of the man in the fur coat. "This is Mr. Milverton, and the lady is Colonel Moriarty."

The name made John stop and stare.

The woman rolled her eyes at John's reaction and leaned against Moran's desk. "Your friend killed my brother."

John wondered how his life had turned into the plot of a horrible soap opera.

"Does James Moriarty have any other siblings I should know about?" He looked to Moran, trying to make the question into a joke, but there was only one person was laughing – and that was Colonel Moriarty.

She let the chuckle drag into a long drawn out sigh, "Yes, but that's a story for another day."

"Now the real question is what to do with you?" Moran interjected as he put protective arm around John's shoulders, which instantly made the doctor want to duck out of his reach. He stayed however, if only to make himself look more cooperative than he felt. He glanced around the room to try and find some sort of improvised weapon, but he found something else that worked better.

"Smoke." John pointed with a slight inclination of his head towards the door.

All eyes moved towards the only exit where there were plumes of rich black smoke rolling up the frame. Instantly Moriarty drew her weapon and moved over to Sebastian, who grabbed John by the wrist and pulled him over to the corner of the room. His grip was strong and no amount of subtle wriggling on John's part would loosen it.

"You must have been followed." Moran hissed to the woman at his side.

"I assure you, not even the Ice Man could have tracked our movements. Remember Barcelona?"

"Then how!" He asked desperately as they watched the room slowly fill with thick darkness.

Milverton panicked and went to the door in order to escape before it got too bad, causing John and the two Colonels to scream out in tandem - but it was too late. His leather gloves failed to warn him of the danger through the brass doorknob and the sudden injection of oxygen into the flaming chaos beyond created an explosion that practically rocketed the man into the bookshelf. Binders and books fell on top of the man's unconscious form and John went to go check on him, but the hand on his forearm refused to let him go.

"He'll be dead if we don't get him away from the door!" John argued, giving Moran a glare that would have made Sherlock hesitate.

"We don't have the time." Moran snapped and looked to Moriarty, gesturing with his head to the window.

The woman moved like a large cat and glided across the floor to a stretch of wall beside the windows. She leaned over and peeked out cautiously, reminding John of his days on the battlefield. Her eyes sought out anything in the darkness that would threaten her survival.

"Smoke coming up from the basement. Not so much near the back door. They must have set the stairs alight and fled the other way. Whoever did this is still out there Sebastian." She looked back to her companion, then to the door hanging off of its hinges. "We might be able clear it to the front if there aren't any obstacles in the hall. You up for a few nasty burns?"

"You can't be serious..." John said weakly, looking from Moriarty to Moran. "The walls are on fire... you'll be literally toasted."

The flames were already spilling into the room, hungry for the carpet and the peeling wallpaper. John could feel the heat radiating from the door and he froze in terror at the thought of entering the inferno. There was no way he was going to survive this without second-degree burns.

Moran and Moriarty stripped Milverton of his fur-coat and without argument, Moriarty donned it and gave her Moran her gun. She took several deep breaths of tainted air, before locking eyes with her partner. "You better follow closely. Watson first. If I go down, shoot him and back-track. You know how Holmes operates by now... you'll have enough time to go out the window before he comes around."

There was no time for agreement before the woman ran into the flames, her footsteps adding to the crackling and the screaming within. Moran held the pistol to John's head and pushed him forward. "I could save you the pain Doctor Watson - with a quick death here. You would probably only slow us down anyway."

John didn't want to die, but he didn't want to burn either.

"You're going to need a doctor after this – I guarantee it Moran." He said quietly before pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands. He tried not to think about how awful this was going to be as he approached the fire and tried to ascertain a route. The smoke obscured all vision and his eyes burned. All the orifices of his face started to water and his throat closed up. If it wasn't for Moran half dragging him into the hallway he would have probably changed his mind and taken the bullet.

"MOVE!" The man practically shrieked over the sound of terrified shrieking from upstairs. The shout made Moran lapse into a coughing fit. He had inhaled too much soot.

John acted upon the opportunity before he could properly think it over. As Moran was raising his right arm to shield his face while he coughed, John grabbed his wrist and twisted so that his grip on the pistol was loosened. In seconds the gun was in John's possession and pointed at the Colonel.

Unfortunately that is when Moriarty emerged from behind them looking crispy and hysterical. "Back! He's-"

She spotted her gun in John's hands.

The doctor instinctively went to change targets, but it was the biggest mistake of his life. He had forgotten that Moran carried a knife.

In the second it took for him to turn around and acknowledge Moriarty's sudden presence, John felt a sharp pain near his kidney and let out a cry of agony. His finger tensed, squeezing the trigger, and by pure fluke he shot Moriarty in the throat. She didn't even have to luxury to scream as she writhed in anguish. Blood flew everywhere and it sizzled in the heat.

John hit the floor first, with Moriarty's corpse landing on top of him. Fire had leapt upon the both of them and John could feel it searing his flesh through his trousers. He couldn't breathe, and his vision was fading. He saw the shoes of Moran hesitate before retreating with lightening speed back into the study.

Whimpering John tried to free himself from the torture of being trapped by a body and burned alive, but he lacked the strength. He felt the blood pouring from his abdomen, pooling beneath him only to scab in the heat. There was also the agonizing sensation of his skin charring on his calves, causing him him to scream as if the noise would somehow make everything okay.

He was going to die here - here, of all places.

"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me..."

Weight shifted, perspectives whirled as someone flipped him over. It was a shadow of black curls and long thin fingers moving over his body. John laughed and cried as it held his arms in a vice grip and pulled him through embers and debris. His ears made out strings of sentences he couldn't comprehend, but the voice. The voice is all he wanted to hear.

"John! Stay awake for me John!"

"...for me..."

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Author's Notes:

Again, I took forever, but I hope this chapter makes up for it. It's hella long and has a ton of stuff in it. I'm hoping it will make you salivate for the next and final chapter. I like chapter's full of action! I could sit down and write them for hours. Sorry if it feels a little out of place since so far its been nothing but talking and John investigating. I think John's character in this one needs a bit of a clean-up. He's at the point where nothing is surprising him anymore though, but I think I made him come across as a little too forward.

Also, the thing about Moriarty's sister - In the books there are theoretically three Moriarty brothers, two of which are named James Moriarty (possibly the third as well). One works at a train station, the other is a Colonel and the third is a Professor. Apparently it was common practice back then to name your kids the same and only switch up the middle names (Mary Clarence, Mary Ann, Mary Jane etc...). I found it odd that Jim Moriarty isn't a professor in the series (which is something he's known for. It's always Professor Moriarty - like Doctor Watson. I don't think Moffat would have left it out accidently). That and Jim did a lot of the leg work in the second finale, which contradicts - "He organizes these things but no one ever has direct contact.". Lastly, this bothers me a tad - "He was so— his voice. He sounded so soft..." Does Jim's voice sound soft to you?

So I threw in Colonel Jamie Moriarty. Just because her male counterpart does exist in the books, and if I remember correctly, he tries to sue Sherlock... or Watson, for making his brother sound like a criminal.

Please Read and Review! I lost a bunch of you guys ;.; and I miss the feeback. Tell me what I did wrong and I will do my best to fix it~!