Jim lounged on the bed, waiting patiently. Any minute now. He glanced idly over the computer monitor on the desk, making sure the scene was properly set. It was like the beginning of a play and all the players were present except for his co-star. Jim had chosen the location carefully. Just remote enough, untraceable when all was said and done. The house's owners had little recourse but to vacate for the length of time that Jim required. The bedroom was tastefully decorated, but spare. Very little that could be used as a weapon against him, but Sherlock would quickly learn that course of action would not be in his, or John's, best interests.

Jim yawned and angled his head up, taking a deep breath and spitting his gum out as far as it would go. The projectile shot from his lips and rebounded off the wall into the corner.

"Bull's eye," he intoned dully.

Ugh, this was boring. So boring. He wanted to play and he wanted to play now!

Patience.

Shut up, I know. He's on his way.

Are you sure this is what you want? To sully your prize?

I'm not sullying him. I'm like a cat, batting an injured bird around. Playing with my prey before I put it out of its misery. He's already dead, he just doesn't know it yet. Let me have my fun.

As long as I get to have some fun, too.

Don't you always?

So far so good.

Jim grunted in irritation and rubbed his hand over his crotch. He felt a sudden surge in his system and knew the time was nigh. Moments later, he heard angry inquiries delivered in a deep, mellow baritone voice and the gentle click of handcuffs being released.

"Show-time," he drawled, leaning back into the pillows as the door opened and Sherlock was shoved inside. The door clicked and locked behind them. There was a man outside, but he wasn't really necessary. Just a bit of show for the sleuth.

Sherlock's clothing was rumpled from struggling and his hair was mussed from the recently removed blindfold, but his expression was impassive as always, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Moriarty."

Jim clucked his tongue. "Sherlock. Jim. Please. No need for formalities here in the boudoir." He smiled faintly as he watched his prize. Sherlock was doing his thing, his charming little thing where he was looking at everything and figuring out everything. Or nothing. It didn't really matter at this point.

But when Sherlock saw the computer monitor, his expression changed. Jim watched, fascinated, as the mask dropped for a nanosecond as Sherlock realized what he was seeing.

John Watson. Handcuffed to a chair. The chair was bolted to the floor. He was blindfolded and gagged.

"John," murmured Sherlock. He turned sharply to confront Jim. "Where is he? Is he all right?"

Jim smiled. "First question: dull. You're better than that. Second question: he's fine. So far. You really need to keep him on a tighter leash. This is the SECOND time I've done this. And I hear your brother picks him up all the time. It's too easy!"

"How do I —"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, how do you know that you're really seeing him and not some old tape on a loop while he bleeds out in another room, YAWN." He smirked at Sherlock, then raised the volume of his voice. "What's up, Doc? Guess who's here? Everyone's faaaaavourite consulting detective, yay!"

On the screen, John visibly stiffened and jerked his head, as if trying to figure out the direction of the sound.

Sherlock blinked. "He can hear us? John!" He barked the doctor's name sharply. "John, if you can hear me, stamp your left foot once."

John lifted his foot and there was an audible thunk as it hit the floor. Sherlock stared hard at the screen, taking in as many details as he could. There was at least one other man in the room, but only the bottom half of him could be seen. The room was spare and overly bright. No windows. The basement. Unless there were outbuilding on the property. The camera was zoomed in so John was virtually the only figure visible. It was close enough that Sherlock didn't have to ask if it was a cleverly disguised decoy.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock demanded, concern edging his voice.

Jim wiggled his toes with glee.

John made an angry muffled noise around his gag and stomped his foot defiantly.

"How adorable!" Jim exclaimed. "It's like those trained horses at the circus who can do math. Clopping their hooves to do sums. Delightful." And then, just as suddenly, his expression shifted. The dark voice wanted its say. "This is boring, Sherlock. Stop mooning over your pet and start asking. The. Right. QUESTIONS!"

Sherlock turned to face him again. "Why am I here?"

Jim nodded in approval. "Better, better."

"We're not here so you can kill us," Sherlock murmured. "This is too simple and you enjoy the game. This — kidnapping and spiriting us away into the country. It's so —"

"Pedestrian?" Jim finished the sentence, sliding off the bed to his feet and moving close to Sherlock.

"Yes."

"True, too true. And …?"

"You don't want John. You just want me. It's always been me."

Jim batted his eyelashes. "Pitter-patter goes my heart!"

"Yet you're seemingly unarmed. I could …" And in a flash, Sherlock's hands closed around Jim's throat and he smashed him up against the wall.

Jim choked and any struggling he did was solely an automated survival response, but he snapped his fingers and his face contorted in a hideous grin as an even more unpleasant sound came from the speakers in the computer. Sherlock whipped his head around and with horror saw that the other man on camera had wrapped his hands around John's throat and was choking him mercilessly. Helpless to resist, John thrashed uselessly, struggling for air, the metal of the cuffs digging hard into tender flesh. Sherlock looked back, stared at his own hands and then dropped them away from Jim's throat. He looked back and almost immediately the man released John, who choked and gasped, sagging forward.

Sherlock looked back once again at Jim, who was rubbing his throat and still grinning. "Ah," he said in his trademark monotone. "You caught on. Gold star for Sherlock."

"It's why you're unarmed. Anything I do to you —"

"Gets done to John," Jim finished. "Lights, camera, action. Wired for sound. So you'll want to be extra, super nice to me."

"You snapped your fingers. Why?"

Jim shrugged and smiled flirtatiously. "Maybe I want you to do certain things to me. Call it a safe word. And …" he waggled his forefinger in Sherlock's face. "You can break my fingers, but I'd recommend you don't. There are other codes I have and my boys are well trained. Besides, you'll be happy for my skilled fingers later. Not to mention broken hands would really put a crimp in your John's blogging and surgical abilities. And I don't have to explain that if you leave this room without my permission, ol' Doc will be dead by the time you find him."

Sherlock nodded his understanding and fixed Jim with an imperious look. "You said later. What, pray tell, comes later?"

Jim bit his lip and grinned. "You. Then me. But you first, I insist. You are my guest and it will be your first time with a helping hand."