Everybody Loves John Watson

Misery Loves Company

(And Company Loves More)

Jim Moriarty: is Spiteful

"I want you to take him out." Jim insisted one day out of the blue. Sebastian didn't even stop his work, wrist deep on a body. Swallowing things did not keep them away from Jim Moriarty and this junkie had learned that the hard way. Obviously he wasn't talking about the stupid junkie, who had long since been dead. Sebastian dug out another one of the gems, dropping the bloody piece into the tray with the rest.

"Sherlock's getting closer to the shop. He'll be there soon." The smaller male mused from the bar top where he sat. Sebastian didn't bother with a response. Jim wasn't actually talking to him, or even explaining anything to him, he just liked to hear himself talk. Sebastian liked to hear him talk, too. Not to mention, if Jim didn't talk out loud, he'd never know what his boss was thinking and Jim always expected him to know.

"I want him to see that his beloved little pet is still alive. Oh, but don't let him talk to him. We wouldn't want Sherlock to know he doesn't remember." He laughed. "Much more fun to let him think he's been betrayed. Betrayed by the only man he ever considered a friend!" Jim wolfed with laughter, his face stretched taut and pleased. "I wonder what he'll do. Maybe he'll break! That's just the icing, though."

"You made him think he's afraid to go outside." Sebastian reminded him. They'd been pounding lies into the little doctor's head for a little over a year now. Watson really did believe he was an Agoraphobic and wouldn't even travel down into the lobby anymore. The closest he had gotten to going outside was when Sebastian accidentally left the bedroom window open to smoke and John had nearly had a panic attack. Not to mention he was completely convinced that whatever else Jim told him was true and the little psychopath was having way too much fun making him believe things. Sebastian saw no reason why they actually had to convince him he was dating either of them, let alone both of them. He also currently thought he knew how to bake, was terrified of the postal worker, and was obsessed with cutting names out of the newspaper. Because Jim told him he was.

Sebastian really needed to stop trusting Jim so unconditionally. Of course, he already knew his boss was completely insane and this was just a living reminder. Again, his worries about John suddenly remembering and going into a flurry of rage was at the front of his mind. Jim didn't seem to think that was possible, though.

"But he's not." Jim answered plainly, as if it were obviously. "So he won't actually be afraid." Sebastian wasn't sure things worked the way he thought they did. He'd made John think he was afraid to go outside meaning he actually was afraid to go outside. Jim had no idea how normal people worked. He was set on his decision, however, and there would be no arguing with him now.

"Carry him out if you fucking have to. Just make sure he's there when I tell you."

"Yes Boss." Sebastian tried not to argue with Jim.

And that was how Sebastian got into this situation. John might have forgotten being in Afghanistan, but his body sure didn't. As soon as he suggested that they leave, the smaller male began to flee with swift, determined steps. He was completely unwilling to go anywhere near the door, or Sebastian for that matter. Over the year, Sebastian had become the safe one. He was safe and predictable and far more cuddly than Jim could be. John's fear was legit and even his sane boyfriend couldn't convince him otherwise.

"I don't want to leave." John demanded as if his military voice would work on his military boyfriend. Sebastian approached him carefully, but the oversized living room turned them in circles even when he tried to back the smaller male into a corner. John awkwardly climbed over the couch and table, but still remained far out of reach. He wasn't interested in anything he knocked over, and only danced less than gracefully around the mess.

"It'll be okay, Richard. I'll be with you." This was not his forte. He could sit in silence and even go to great lengths to make sure John didn't get in the way of his boss, but he was not a people person. The last time Sebastian asked anyone to do anything, it was accompanied by the barrel of a gun. Jim was asking him to do something he had no skill in. There weren't a lot of other options, however. No, that was a lie. Setting the flat on fire would get John out of it.

"No! I'm perfectly happy inside!" John chucked whatever he could get his hands on at the approaching man, which was unfortunately quite a bit of stuff. The couch pillows were harmless, the mug was easy to dodge, the remote was a little painful, the handfuls of silverware just weren't fair, and the stain the wine left would be blamed on poor Seb later. He was very intent on not leaving the house, even if it meant maiming his boyfriend.

"Jim says you need to face your fears, Richard. You won't get better if you don't." Sebastian wasn't sure if it would make it worse or better by mentioning Jim.

"Well Jim's wrong! I'm perfectly fine with being afraid!" John's back hit the fridge and instantly he knew he was in trouble. He grasped at the edge of it, hoping desperately the handle would fall off so he could have something to fight the larger man off with.

"No! Sebastian! No! I don't want to go outside!" He tried to convince the other loudly. Sebastian ignored him, moving in for the kill before the slippery man could escape again. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man's waist and for his efforts, he was stuck. John might have been stronger than Jim, but he lacked the malicious intent the psychopath had. He wasn't much bigger than Jim, but as usual, the squirming made it far more difficult.

"Put me down, Sebastian! I'm serious!" He kicked and screamed and pounded on any part of Sebastian he could reach, which happened to be his back mostly. Which would have been easier if his back wasn't already torn up something fierce. John was a lot stronger than he looked and it was likely he was adding to the marks that already painted the sniper's back.

"I don't want to go outside! Stop Sebastian! This is inhumane! Rape! Fire! Something!" John was willing to try anything to get him out of this situation.

"Stop it, Richard." Sebastian hissed lowly. No one would come to his rescue, anyways, but there was no need to cause any trouble in the building. Surprisingly, some people actually lived in the lower flats. The walls had to be impossibly thick.

"You're overreacting." John calmed down, but that, as he knew, wasn't always a good thing. He stood in the elevator with a full grown man hiked up on his shoulder. Sebastian wished this was a one time thing, but it wasn't and he'd had more than his fair share of having to carry Jim in and out of the building for an assortment of reasons. Sometimes he, too, went kicking and screaming. Fortunately, he was usually on drugs and incoherent. John was not and he wasn't okay with this.

"You'll just listen to whatever Jim says, won't you?" John demanded. "I don't even think you have a mind of your own. You're not a man. You're a dog. And not even a good dog!" He had adapted parts of Jim's personality as well, it seemed. That wasn't completely surprising. Sebastian had began to wonder what sort of system he had made to be able to survive Jim. Cowardice was the best choice, but like Sebastian, John hadn't done that. He stayed out of the way, of course, but he wasn't afraid. The sniper wasn't sure who it was worse for; John or Jim.

"A good dog wouldn't get hit by his owner."

"You can say whatever you want, Richard. You're going outside." Thankfully, Sebastian was steady against vicious words.

"Why do we have to leave, Sebby?" John purred pleasantly, rubbing his fingers toward the waistband of the man's pants. "We can just stay here and, you know, have sex." He suggested seductively. Sebastian knocked his hands away pointedly.

"We're going outside." He assured the man firmly once again. John went back to kicking and screaming. Once outside, he stopped. For a moment, Sebastian thought he had fainted, but fortunately, he hadn't. He was just too afraid to move. That wasn't much better, but at least he was responsive. He set the blonde doctor on his feet and waited patiently for him to come back to his senses. After a few painfully long minutes, John seemed to realize that there was nothing to be afraid of. Or at least he remembered he wasn't an Agoraphobic. He heaved a few breaths, filling his lungs with the sweet, cool outside air, and smiled.

"T-this isn't that bad." He admitted, reaching out to grab Sebastian's arm. He steadied himself a little, clinging to the man for support as he took in the sights he had seen from his glass room he'd been showed off in. That was what it was, after all, John just didn't know it. A cage of phobia and a leash of lies. It was a coin flip today. John might recognize something that would jump start his memory. If anything would, seeing Holmes would, but that wasn't an argument he would make with Jim. He'll do as he was told and take John to the coffee shop. Sebastian gently took the doctor by his hand, ushering him down the sidewalk calmly and casually.

For the most part, John appeared to react just as Jim had assumed he would. Since he didn't actually had a reason to be afraid, he wasn't. To him, it was probably an act of magically healing which would only drive him further to believe Jim and his lies. Sebastian wondered if it was possible he would never remember.

"I don't remember why I was so afraid," John murmured, his eyes searching every inch of the landscape that was in sight. To him, he'd never been outside. He couldn't remember anything before the accident and he'd been in the flat for an entire year with only the view from the top floor as his outside. It should have been fantastic, but John's memory proved to be a fighter and everything just seemed familiar to him. It didn't seem to have been as long as Jim told him it was.

"Coffee?"

"That sounds fantastic, actually." John agreed. Sebastian opened the door for him, allowing him in first while the sniper looked for any sign of the Holmes. There was no clear sign of him yet, but if Moriarty had said he would be here, he would.

Sure enough, he showed.

"John." John didn't respond. He didn't even look over his shoulder. He simply snapped the lid back onto the cardboard cup and passed it to his boyfriend. The tall, even slimmer appearing male took two swift steps towards them, attempting to check that it really was John Watson before he jumped to conclusions. He obviously was.

"John!" Louder this time and he still didn't notice. Sherlock hurried through the shop toward them. Only then did John noticed the stranger was headed for them. He pursed his lips in confusion, but he didn't recognize him. Sebastian nearly didn't recognize him. Jim was right; the man had no idea how to take care of himself. He was thinner, paler, his clothes were dirty, and his face was shallow. John responded in his medic way; he frowned sadly at the man. Before any words could be exchanged, Sebastian caught him hard in his sharp, pale face with unforgiving knuckles.

"Sebastian!"

"John-"

"He was coming at you." Sebastian grunted, grabbing the short man firmly around the arm to keep him from tending to the injured man. Sherlock didn't seem to notice his busted lip, though. He was too busy staring at the pair of them in disbelief.

"You know Jim would have a fit if I let anything happen to you. Let's go." The sniper insisted, dragging John away from the stunned Holmes. Sebastian really need to stop doubting Jim. It wasn't worth anything. He glanced back at the bizarre stranger, but continued to be utterly clueless to who he was. It didn't matter. Sherlock now knew he was alive and Jim would start his new game.

"John."

Part One
Holmes Don't Cry

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with his feelings. So, like all other times, he shut them off. They weren't helpful. They weren't going to show him where John was nor how to get him back. The letter had led him back to the coffee shop. He stuck around long enough, bloody face and all, to discover that Moriarty had given the letter to the barista. Her description had been awful at best, but it was undoubtedly Moriarty. He must have known, and expected, that Sherlock would track it back to this cafe. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why. Was Moriarty simply taunting him? John was alive and he was with Moran. He was happy with Moran? For normal people, that meant giving up, or at least allowing him to be happy, but that wasn't the case.

Sherlock refused to believe it. John was alive and there was something wrong. He wasn't himself. He seemed to have healed completely from the accident and there were a few faint, leftover scars where he had, indeed, been hurt. They were all old, though, at least a year. They weren't hurting him physically, then. Moriarty could be torturing him mentally. His skin was so pale, he had to have been inside for the last year. That would explain why no one had seen any sign of him. He was in good health, however, meaning he wasn't being kept anywhere cramped or dark. It didn't have to be, however. Being kept anywhere for too long was bound to have some sort of affection on John's mental state.

Stockholm Syndrome, of course. Moriarty kept John cooped up for so long and pretended to care about him for the length that John now thought that he actually loved the man. That was the sick sort of thing he'd do. Moriarty wouldn't even need a reason. He did of course, Sherlock just didn't know what it was yet. He would have to wait, but he didn't want to wait. John was only going to get worse. Still, he forced himself to make do. If he was keeping John locked up, it was no coincidence that he had ran into him today. If he knew, then so did Mycroft. Lestrade, slow as always, wouldn't be far behind. They were constantly getting in his way.

He'salive, Sherlock. Noweat. - MH

He wasn't hungry. Mycroft was up to something. He never texted when he could call. Just because John was alive didn't mean he was safe and it didn't mean they could relax.

I'msendingLestradeover. -MH

Youcan'thelphimifyou'redead. -MH

Sherlock ignored him. Mrs. Hudson was out and Lestrade wasn't getting in. He knew how much his body could take and he had no intentions of leaving John's rescuing up to anyone else. Time was running thin. He didn't have time for all those needless things. His clothes were perfectly fine, he washed his face only this morning, and he had a cup of tea and a cocktail of vitamins yesterday. He had no idea what Moriarty was doing to his John. He couldn't risk his train of thought with something like food.

Moriarty wouldn't want something as simple as a ransom. There was no sign of the chip in the ruins of the theater. Sherlock had to widen his reasoning. If Moriarty had it, then he was after something else. If Mycroft had it, Moriarty was still after it and this was his brother's fault. If he was left out of this because of Mycroft, he was going to be furious. Mycroft didn't care about John! He hadn't even put through any effort to look for him. It didn't matter. Regardless of Mycroft's position in the matter, Sherlock was going to find him first.

His phone rang. There was no hesitation between the noise and Sherlock's answer. He was expecting it completely.

"Hullo, Sherlock."

"You should tell your dog to be careful."

"Oh, that's right! You ran into my little pets today. Oops." Moriarty hummed with laughter.

"John is not your pet."

"Ooh, Jim, please fix it for me. Fix it for me, please Jim. I can't stand them anymore. I can't stand living with Sherlock Holmesanymore. I can't stand his habits. I can't stand his deductions. I can't stand him invading and smothering every aspect of my life! Will you fix it for me, Jim? Please." The psychopath's voice cracked over the phone worse than any whip could. He tried not to imagine the words coming out of John's mouth. Moriarty was a liar. It was one of the many things he was good at.

"Why should I believe you?" Sherlock insisted casually. "Let me talk to John."

"Do you really think he wants to talk to you? Do you really want to hear him tell you to piss off?" Moriarty giggled.

"Yes." There was nothing that could be said to him that would stop him from coming. John could beg him not to come, or shout at him, or even try to convince him that he really did hate him. It wouldn't stop him. However, that wasn't what he wanted. He just needed to hear John's voice. It would help him distinguish whether or not he was in trouble and hopefully, his state of mind. Anything was helpful right now. Sherlock wouldn't admit that hearing his boyfriend's voice after so long would keep him sane just a little bit longer.

"Well it's too bad his mouth is rather busy right now. Don't worry, Sherlock. You can still talk to me." The man assured him. Sherlock didn't respond for a moment. What was Moriarty doing to his John?

"Fine. Where is he?"

"Oh Sherlock. Don't be boring." He hummed. "I've been waiting an awfully long time to play with you. Had to wait for my wounds to heal. Quite unfortunate I didn't get anyone in that one. My bloody pet isn't good with explosives." Moriarty sighed heavily. "It wasn't completely lost. It did make your pet realize how much trouble you are." He tacked on pleasantly.

"What do you want."

"You're not listening." The voice sang. "He doesn't want you! You've hurt him, Sherlock. You're so emotionally distant you can't even understand why he left. I'd almost feel bad for you."

"I don't care. I'm taking him back."

"Jim?" That was John's voice. Bile rose in Sherlock's throat. Maybe that tea had been a bad idea.

"Hold on, Sherlock. Yes, love?"

"Aren'tyoujoiningus? Sebastian'sgettingdesperate." Sherlock wanted to yell over the phone until John came back to him.

"In a minute. Daddy's almost done here." It was too far away. He wrote down everything. If John was trying to get a message to him, he was going to find it.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I must be going now. My boys need me."

"Why did you call." The detective insisted and the criminal laughed.

"To watch you dance." The line dropped, saving Sherlock from having to listen to anymore of his taunting voice. Of course, it echoed in the back of his head, drowning out any remains of John's voice. Then he received a picture. His focus was instantly on his John, laying nude on his side with the stranger's arm around his waist; Moran. The picture made them appear as though they belonged cuddled together. It was wrong. John was sick. It didn't count.

That part was obvious, though. It was the background he was interested in. They were in a glass room of some sort. By what little he could see, they were very high up. He could find John based on this. He was sure of it.

"Sherlock," Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the older DI sharply. He glanced toward the door and then back again. Mrs. Hudson was still out. How did he get in?

"John gave me a key," muttered Lestrade, shaking the loop of keys gently. "Before- you know. Said I should use it if he's not around to get you out." At the time, he'd probably been suggesting it for when he was out with Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't happy, but he promptly ignored the man and began his important work. He'd pick pocket the key from him later. He couldn't have the locks changed. What if John came back?

"Mycroft sent me." He began. "And you probably already know that. Look, Sherlock, John wouldn't approve of this self destructive behavior and you know it."

"John wouldn't approve of your smoking, either." Sherlock answered back swiftly and unforgiving. It was getting harder for Lestrade to put up with him. There was no point in trying to convince him of anything with words. There was only one way he'd get Sherlock to do anything. He ripped the phone from the man's hand and the forced himself between the taller man and the wall he was working on. Sherlock glared at him, unwavering and slightly terrifying.

"Move." He instructed.

"I want to help you. I am your friend, Sherlock." Lestrade insisted firmly.

"No. You're not. You're an annoyance. Get out of my way, Lestrade." If there was one thing that could be expected from Sherlock, it was that he always got what he wanted. Lestrade wasn't trying to prevent him from that. He just wanted to make sure he didn't die first. Mycroft had sounded worried over the phone, as worried as a Mycroft could sound.

"I'm not going anywhere until you listen to me. You're not the only one that cares about John. I know you want to find him, we all do, but it will be a lot easier if you let us help you."

"I don't need help." Sherlock sniffed.

"No. John does." The inspector reminded him sharply. The detective knew that, though. Sometimes he just needed to hear things out loud to realize how bad they really were. It was one of the many reasons he thought better with John around. Sherlock didn't offer a counter argument, which was as good as any white flag from the man. Lestrade gave a curt nod that spoke a silent 'good'.

"I'm going to make you some tea and you're going to drink it. Then we'll get you something to eat." Still no response. That was what Lestrade wanted to hear. He slowly moved out of Sherlock's way, as if the man would lash back if he moved too quickly. He made his way around the cluttered, filthy kitchen. It was worse than he had ever seen it. It made sense, though. If Sherlock wasn't taking care of himself, he wasn't taking care of the flat. Sherlock needed John.

Lestrade brought him a cup of tea and Sherlock watched him sharply as he drank, obviously demanding that the man leave since he was doing as he was told. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was fast asleep, leaned up against the wall where he worked. Lestrade felt a little bad for having to drug him, but it was the only way to get him to go to sleep and stay asleep. He'd be upset when he finally did awake, but they'd deal with that then. Lestrade dragged the man by his waist through the flat and to his bed.

There wasn't anything else he could do at the moment. If he even tried to straighten up anything, he didn't relish the idea of finding anything in the mess. Lestrade glanced at the phone he had confiscated from Sherlock. He couldn't help himself. If Sherlock was hiding anything from them, they needed to know about it. There weren't any texts from John, or Moriarty, but there was a picture.

"Oh, John," Lestrade breathed.

Sherlock awoke to the sound of his phone. He scrambled for it instantly and was met with a irritated alert. Eight new messages. Six of them were pictures. The first was a message.

Celebratingayearwithoutyou. Congrats.

The first picture was of John and the henchman locked in a heated embrace on the sidewalk. More taunts, but more locations as well. The title read 'Sebbylikeskissingtoo'.

The second was of John seemingly being flirted with in a bar by a stranger. 'Tsktsk'.

The third had said stranger being held down around his neck and against the bar by Moran. The crowd had parted to get out of the chaos and John stood nearby, holding his face with obvious embarrassment, but smiling. 'Dontworrywereprotectiveofhim'.

The fourth had John standing on the bar top. His arm was firmly around Moriarty's waist and the other was in the process of holding up a glass and sloshing it all over the place. Moriarty was holding him balanced. 'Johnloveseveryoneinthisbar'.

In the fifth, John had swept Moriarty back and was passionately kissing his neck. Sebastian was holding them steady to prevent either, or both, of them from taking a dive off the bar. 'Butespeciallyme'.

The last was taken that morning. John lay sprawled on a couch with his head in Moriarty's lap and a washcloth over his face. Moriarty didn't appear to be in much better condition. 'Sherlockhatedcuddling'.

The final message was a video. The sniper appeared first. "John'shappynow, Holmes." The camera turned away to face the two drunk, short men. John clung to him pointedly. "Yeah. Soyoubettaleaveusalone, youcreep," he slurred. Moriarty giggled loudly and John proceeded to kiss him heatedly into seat of the cab. The video stopped there.

Moriarty had obviously gained John's trust and convinced him of his lies. He just had to be reminded that Moriarty was an insane criminal and avid liar. He knew the man was trying to get a rise out of him, but it wasn't going to work. In the meantime, he was being led directly to John. He hurried out of bed and was met with a box of take out. Lestrade had fled, as he very well should have, and Sherlock returned to his bad habits.

Part Two
Cracks in the Ice

The defenses Mycroft had nearly finished putting up were instantly struck down again. He'd been expecting the worse and prepared himself for an assortment of bad news from John's death to having to learn that he had been tortured. However, no matter how much he prepared himself for learning that this was John's choice, it still proved to be painful. It wasn't surprising, though. They had put an awful lot of pressure on the man when they tried to make him choose and mixed with the danger of living with Sherlock, knowing Mycroft, and being close to Lestrade; it was only a matter of time before it became too much. Could he really believe things were better with Moriarty, though? As far as anything was known, he wasn't actually assisting in any criminal activity. Supposedly, Moriarty wasn't a psychopath all of the time.

He wanted to know it wasn't true, but it was hard with all the evidence. Sherlock was convinced there was something else going on, but he knew his brother simply didn't know what to do with his betrayed trust. It was unfortunate that the one person Sherlock came to believe in turned away from him. He'd been worried about this in the beginning. Mycroft had to talk with John. He just needed to understand and then John was free to do whatever he wanted with his life. He also needed to be warned. If John willingly participated in Moriarty's deeds, then he would be targeted just as Moriarty was and he wouldn't be given special treatment.

Mycroft, despite knowing it was no good, watched any and all video of John out on the street with Sebastian Moran. The man was dangerous and armed. If he wanted to talk to John, he would have to do it without the sniper around. Attempting to approach them now would turn into a fight and there was nothing proving that Moran wouldn't just shoot John. Just because John was happy didn't mean he was safe. He couldn't find anything out of the ordinary, though John did seem a little apprehensive to be outside. That was a little strange, but it wasn't hard evidence.

"Sir, someone left this." Anthea, as perfect and decent as she always was, played the message on his office phone. It hadn't rang. Why did he have a message?

"ThisisamessageforMycroftHolmes," That was John's voice. Mycroft didn't show any response to it, though, even after all this time.

"FromJimMoriarty. Forsomereasonhethinksyou'lllistentome. Look, Iknowyouprideyourselfonbeingcalmandcollected, somuchthatJimcallsyoutheIceMan, butjustdropit. Lasttimeyouandhemet, youtookit. Please, justgiveitback. Idon'twanthimtohurtyou."

Mycroft cleared his throat. He knew perfectly well what Moriarty was after, but he couldn't allow it. If he was given what he wanted, dozens of innocent people would die. If he didn't, John might be killed. This wasn't a situation he could debate on. Regardless of his feelings for John, his life was not worth anymore than anyone else's and they outnumbered him.

"What do you want to do?" She questioned firmly. Want? Want was a completely different concept. Mycroft didn't do anything he wanted to. He wished people would understand that. He thought about it for a moment before giving a simple shake of the head.

"Put surveillance on the flat." He instructed, as if they hadn't been doing that already. If Sherlock found out where John was, they'd have hell to pay.

"And Watson?"

"We must assume that he is working with Moriarty. Any suspicious activity will be logged with the rest." Mycroft informed. She looked away from her phone, utterly unconvinced, before leaving him alone in his office. It was unfortunate his relationship had to end this way. He knew the odds were against him in the beginning, but he didn't think he'd lose to Moriarty. He hadn't even known Moriarty was playing. Sherlock was right, though, something seemed off. He wanted something to be off.

He played the message again. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was being held hostage. John wasn't the kind to plea for his own life especially if he knew others were in danger. Moriarty liked to hear himself talk, so if that was the case, John knew other people were at risk. That was plausible, but John's phrasing just seemed wrong somehow. It sounded unnatural to the John he knew.

Sherlock'sasleep. -GL

AndIfoundsomething. -GL

When John was in danger, rivalries will be put aside. Sherlock didn't seem to understand that, but Lestrade did. Despite them doing their best not to spend too much time together, jealousy still boiled between the three men. Mycroft was glad he could count on the DI to tend to his brother when he couldn't. He received a message from Sherlock's phone.

Mycroft sucked in a sigh. That was the proof if there was any. The awful, terrible proof. He thanked Lestrade curtly and turned his attention to lighting a cigarette. Before he knew it, he'd ground out five of them into the tray on his desk. He stopped himself from lighting another one, shoving the box in his desk drawer and took a few breaths of the smoky air. It wasn't his fault alone, but it felt like it. Even if he did give Moriarty what he wanted, it didn't mean John would come back. If Sherlock ever found out, though, their already stressed relationship would break. That was, if Sherlock didn't break first.

It'snotthedanger, IceMan. -JM

Moriarty wasn't watching him. Though Mycroft would have felt better if he was. He simply knew what hurt the most. He did the smart thing and didn't respond to the taunts.

It'sthesecrets.

YoushouldseehimwithSebby. It'sadorable. Theydosayyoushouldbuytwocatstokeepeachothercompany.

Mycroft wasn't sure what he was hoping to achieve with this. It wasn't getting him any closer to convincing the Government to hand over the chip. That would never happen. He was sure the psychopath just liked to show off his power.

Theytelleachothereverything.

ThelittleDIandhiswifeproblems. Sherlockandhiscases. Andwhatofyou?

Youlikecake.

He could almost hear Moriarty's laughter in the room. It wasn't as if he didn't want share, but as this proved, it was much more complex and far more dangerous than people realized. This situation was bad enough without John knowing anything else. Whether it was about him or about his job, the less he knew, the safer they both were. John understood that. Or at least, Mycroft thought he had.

SebbywillbesodisappointedwhenwehavetoputJohndown. -JM

"I'm so sorry, John."

The door opened and Lestrade appeared in the frame. He held up a bag with take away and forced a smile through his pain.

"You gotta eat, too, Holmes," he insisted, setting the box before him on the desk. Lestrade seated himself on the other side of the desk, obviously intent on staying there until Mycroft ate something. Unlike Sherlock, who simply refused to eat, Mycroft was slightly more difficult to deal with. The few times he'd met with the older Holmes face to face, it was obvious his weight was all over the place. He was torn between not eating and eating too much. The smoke in the room alerted Lestrade that Mycroft wasn't doing any better than him.

"Thank you." Mycroft murmured, though he made no move to reach for the food. His phone went off, but the man only brushed it into his desk drawer. Lestrade watched him with pale, bagged eyes. It was a few more minutes before either of them spoke.

"This isn't John." Lestrade insisted.

"He's made his choice." The Government answered simply.

"Have you talked to him? The older man insisted sharply. Mycroft played the message on his machine and Lestrade's eyes never left his. His eyes responded to the voice, though and the DI swallowed back a mouthful of emotion.

"No." Lestrade said firmly. "Have you talked to him? Had a conversation. You know, where one person talks and the other listens and responds?" Mycroft frowned, just a little bit insulted. However, he hadn't spoken to John yet.

"I have not."

"Until I get a reason from John, a good, reasonable explanation, then I'm not believing it. I might not be an expert on Moriarty, but if I've learned anything, it's that this is exactly the kind of mind fuck that he likes to do to you two." He rose to his feet swiftly.

"Sherlock's going to find him, whether you help him or not, but if you really care about John, or Sherlock for that matter, you'll help him. You'll help us."

"It's not that simple." Mycroft tried to reason. Had it been anyone other than Moriarty, they had a system, but the situation was too complex for there to be a straightforward answer. If they put in all the work to get John back only to discover he didn't want to be back, then their efforts would be wasted and their already crumbling hopes smashed.

"You're a Holmes. You see things, and options that the rest of us don't even consider and then you laugh at us because you have three eyes in the land of the blind. I'm not asking you, Holmes. I'm not begging you. I'm telling you right now, you better do something. If anything happens to John because you're too stupid to know when to stop being the government and start being a friend- no- a lover, then I will hold you responsible." He held the cold man's stare before taking for the door. He stopped before the door, though, turning to catch his rival again.

"And, I've been informed that I'll be required to take a leave of absence from work. So if you need me, I won't be at the Yard." Lestrade scoffed as a good bye. Mycroft shook away his feelings and regrets with a small adjust of the shoulders and head. He made a small adjustment to the files on his desk, though there was no attempt to order them, before helping himself to the bit of food left for him.

This wasn't anything new to Mycroft, after all. It would be easier now. He didn't have to make excuses to himself now that he knew John had made a choice. Caring was not an advantage and this was no excuse. He'd had a momentary lapse of judgement.

Mycroft quietly sighed. He always got the wrong end of circumstance.

Part Three
Clever Coffee Tables

Lestrade was drawn taut. He was torn between working too hard and not working enough. Why did it always have to be one or the other with the Holmes? It was no wonder they hated each other. It was unfair that they were probably the only two people that could currently help John at the moment, especially considering his recent 'vacation' time. Without the resources of the Yard, he would have to work on his own. Not to mention he would have to keep track of the brothers. They'd run themselves into the ground if left alone.

He should probably start taking care of himself a little better, too. Lestrade gathered the box of cigarettes from his pocket and put them out of reach under his seat. He needed to get to John, too, even though he knew full well that Sherlock would find him first. Sherlock didn't need any help and certainly wasn't going to accept any help. Lestrade knew from experience that he would never work well with Sherlock. He didn't need to get to John first, he just needed to make sure he was okay when he got back.

Lestrade didn't believe for a second that John willingly went with Moriarty. He would probably need medical treatment when he returned. Mycroft would handle that, however, as he had done the time before. Not for the first time when placed up against the Holmes, Lestrade felt rather useless. He knew when John returned the thing he would like to do is sleep in his own bed, in his own home, and Lestrade knew Sherlock hadn't stepped a foot in his flatmate's room since his disappearance. It was probably due for a cleaning but he wouldn't get anywhere near the room with Sherlock home.

A good meal, then. Lestrade was not a cook by any circumstances. He supposed he had time to learn, but he wanted to be helpful. He wanted to get John back and he wanted the Holmes to know that this wasn't a problem they had to, or should, deal with on their own. He'd been dating John, too, and even had a chance. This was as much his problem as it was theirs and as soon as Sherlock found hard evidence that John was being held against his will, Mycroft would go to work just as hard as Sherlock was.

So there was nothing he could do to help John. Even if he did find out where Moriarty was, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't exactly barge in and demand his boyfriend back. He couldn't expect Moriarty to be alone and he couldn't expect to be able to take John away without a fight. Even if it was a mental one. He couldn't help John directly, fine, but he could help the Holmes. He could keep Sherlock alive and fed, he couldn't do it himself obviously, and keep Mycroft's hope alive until his little blonde love could be rescued. Considering who he was talking about, it was easier said than done.

Regardless, there was nothing more he could do for today. He felt uneasy simply going home and waiting. He was not a man who could idly wait aside when he knew there was something to be done especially when it directly concerned him. Now that he wasn't allowed back at work, he didn't know what to do with himself. Anything not productive towards finding John just felt wrong. However, sitting in his car, in the icy silence of loneliness wasn't much better.

Getting away from this place was the best idea at the moment. That would have been great, but he had no idea where he was. In fact, he hadn't even driven here, how on earth did his car end up here? Mycroft's power was startling sometimes. A quick search and he located a note under the sun visor with directions into a familiar road. Convoluted directions. He'd never find his way back, not that he particularly wanted to. He'd figure out how to contact The Government later.

One confused drive into civilization later, Lestrade's thoughts were no more clear. If Mycroft was right, which it was really up in the air considering neither brother was wrong often, and John didn't want to come back, what would he do? It was John's choice completely, but this wasn't John. He'd never known John to do something like this. In fact, the very idea that all three of them were baffled by the decision assured him that he wasn't alone in his reasoning. One of them would have noticed something, anything, that would have foreshadowed this, but there was nothing. People like John didn't just wake up one day and decide that they were going to closely associate with the likes of people like Moriarty.

If he had woken up after the accident and thought that was a good idea, then he needed to be checked out properly. He was probably suffering brain damage. In fact, that made the most sense so far. He might not remember everything, or see everything, or 'notice' everything, but Lestrade had the wonderful ability to remember completely useless things he had picked up over the years. The brain was a funny thing. He didn't remember much from the explosion, everything had happened so fast and so violently, but he knew it was possible John had suffered some damage. Maybe a piece of shrapnel was stuck in his head and it was causing a problem with empathy or something. If Sherlock could just talk to him, they'd know for sure.

He made it a total of two steps into his flat when there was a knock. Lestrade suspiciously peeked outside before deeming it okay to open. It was only Sally, though he doubted she was supposed to be near him while on 'vacation'.

"What are you-"

"Take it." She demanded, shoving a covered cage into his chest. She didn't even make sure he was holding it before letting it go, nearly causing him to drop it all together. He stared at her blandly for a moment before peeking into the cage and being firmly assured that there was a bird in it.

"Are you going to tell me why you brought me this thing?"

"It's Anderson's." Sally informed him sharply.

"Details, Donavon." That wasn't exactly a reason for him to have it.

"It was a gift for his wife. She's allergic. I can't get it to shut up. I haven't slept in two days. You're lonely. Enjoy."

"I'm not taking this." Why on earth did he want a bird? She mentioned it was noisy as if it would convince him to keep it. Lestrade noticed it was strangely quiet however, and he wondered if it was drugged.

"Take the bird now or I'm bringing you kung-pow chicken tomorrow."

"Fine." He wasn't doing anything important or anything. "I'll just take it back to a pet store." Sally was off of his stoop in a heartbeat, and now he had a bird. He uncovered the poor thing and settled the cage on his table. It was a tiny thing and certainly not one that spoke, even if it tweeted as if its life depending on it.

"I guess I definitely shouldn't name you John. You would probably get kidnapped." He opened the cage and it fluttered out in a flurry. "Not to mention you look nothing like John. And don't act like John at all. But you're tiny and strangely adorable, which is enough for me. God, she's right. I'm lonely." Lestrade decided it was some sort of finch and he probably shouldn't have let it out of its cage. It buzzed around the house in confusion, petite form crashing into everything. He was glad he didn't have anything breakable. After a few minutes, it wore itself out and roosted on top of the tv.

He made himself some food and attempted to put his mind somewhere useful. It didn't work. Instead of doing something important, he found himself debating his position. Maybe he should give up on John. When it came down to it, he simply didn't have a chance. He wasn't even sure Mycroft had a chance. Sherlock and John were already so close. Seeing Sherlock stressing over this so bad reminded him of the way the younger man had been before John came along and how much Sherlock needed his doctor.

If it meant being with John, Lestrade could put up with Sherlock and his constant meddling and antics. Could John, though? Could John hold up against the truly pitiful man? No, he decided. He couldn't, but that didn't mean he would give up so easily. He wouldn't know unless he tried. He was getting a little reckless, wasn't he? Maybe it was his midlife crisis. The little feathered creature hoped towards his plate. It was so tiny, Lestrade didn't even notice it had come to the table.

"I guess I've had my fun." He sighed patiently feeding the it a piece of bread from his plate. It seemed to have relaxed a little now that it had room to fly.

John was probably a good ten or so years younger than him, probably more if he was honest. He wouldn't be completely let down if he drew the short straw. He'd given it a chance and things went better than he thought they would. They would always be others, even if John was already so perfect. Who was he kidding? He'd probably throw in his hat after this.

The bird quietly perched itself on his hand and he smiled.

"I think I'll call you Sherlock. You're impossibly loud when cooped up, you apparently hate Sally, and all I have to do to get you to settle down is let you do whatever you want and give you something you like. Bread it seemed, instead of compliments. You're too small, though." Lestrade mused pointlessly. "And your beige belly." This was surprisingly calming. Maybe he needed something like this.

"We'll get him back. No matter who he chooses."

That night, Sherlock located Moriarty.

He went alone.