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Chapter 24: Exposing

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"Good evening, Dr. Watson," Sebastian greeted in a honeyed tone.

John glared.

"What do you want?" he inquired between gritted teeth.

The man gave him a falsely hurt pout and shook his head.

"Why are you being so aggressive? I just came to have a little chat," he protested. He was quite good at mimicking his master, John thought gloomily. "And to invite you over," Sebastian added with a smile that did not bode well.

John's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the plastic cup he was holding and his gaze turned to ice.

"Where is Moriarty?"

"You'll see him if you come with me."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to use the gun that's in my inner pocket."

They locked eyes; the staring contest did not last ten seconds.

"You would shoot me in the middle of a hospital? With all those witnesses?"

Sebastian snorted.

"Don't be stupid. I wouldn't shoot you. I'd just shoot everyone else."

John glowered, but reckoned that he did not have much choice. He put the cup down on the dustbin that was next to the vending machine, purposefully not putting it in, and nodded curtly. He truly hoped Sherlock would get the message that he would return, and that the detective would not come after him. The last thing John wanted was for his friend to be in the presence of that maniac again.

He only regretted he did not have his handgun with him, but knew that if the occasion presented itself, he would need no weapon to squeeze the life out of Jim Moriarty. Perhaps Sebastian saw in John's eyes the insane determination of one who wants to take revenge. He smirked amusedly as he held the door for the ex-soldier, and went out after him.

xXx

Sherlock was starting to wonder why John wasn't coming back. Before the Basement incident, he might have thought that his friend had just encountered a very pretty nurse; but now, the consulting detective was much more inclined to start worrying early, and to believe his dear archenemy had something to do with the doctor being late.

At first, he told himself off and resisted the urge to go and check on his partner. He had put his own clothes back on after the shower, so roaming around the hospital wearing that horrible gown wasn't the issue: but he did not want John to think that he could panick so easily, even though almost a week had passed since the traumatizing event. Admittedly, John, being a doctor and having served in the army, was well aware that trauma did not last just one week. Sherlock, however, wanted to do nothing that could remind his friend of what he himself considered to be an unbearably stupid frailty, and so waited a good twenty minutes before finally snapping and leaving his room to look for his flatmate.

When he saw John wasn't at the vending machine, he frowned in annoyance.

When he saw the plastic cup on the dustbin, his annoyance shattered, leaving only a sense of dread.

John.

xXx

"Johnny boy!" the hateful lilting voice chimed. "I am so glad that you've accepted my invitation! I've missed you, you know."

"Well, I haven't missed you," John replied coldly.

"Aw, don't be so tense. Why don't you take a seat? Oops, they're all taken already. You can sit on the bed, though."

John's eyes turned to slits. Of course Moriarty would have the twisted idea of receiving him in the room he had been sleeping in with Sherlock during their stay at Ridling Thorpe Manor. As to how the madman had managed to get access to the house when such tragic events had just taken place in it and it was obviously off limits to the public, John had no idea.

"I'm fine standing."

"But I want you to sit."

John was about to snarl "Well, too bad" when Sebastian, who was standing behind his employer, nonchalantly pointed his gun at him. John's gaze hardened in cold anger, but he sat down on the bed stiffly. Moriarty grinned.

"That's a good boy. So where were we? Ah, right, we hadn't even begun!"

He's a complete wacko, John thought. Of course he'd been aware of it for quite a while, but sometimes Moriarty appeared to be even more psychotic than clever, and that was when he was the most terrifying. A clever, evil man was dangerous enough, but a clever, evil and psychotic man could certainly cause much more damage.

"What do you want?" John asked callously.

Jim gave him a creepy smile.

"Just to have a little chat."

John refrained from rolling his eyes, definitely thinking that Sebastian really knew the consulting criminal very well. It would have been funny, in any other situation.

"About what?"

"Oh, you know, our common interest."

"I don't see how we could have any," John deadpanned, quite honest.

"Why, really? What about our only consulting detective in the world?"

He grinned again, and John had never wanted to smash his face more than in this instant.

"Ooh, you're getting angry already, even though I haven't said anything yet. But you're the one who's to do the talking. So? What news?"

"We're doing well, thank you very much," John snapped back.

"Well that's a bit vague, isn't? How broken is he? Is he very traumatized?" Moriarty pressed on, a childlike glimmer in his eyes, just like a kid trying to get out of his parents what they got him for Christmas. It made John feel sick in the stomach.

"You..." he started, shaking with rage as he surged to his feet.

"Tut tut, calm down, Johnny. You wouldn't want Sherlock to find you shot dead in the room in which you must have spent some lovely moments together."

"You're disgusting."

"Am I?" Jim wondered, his tone tinged with mock surprise. "What about you? I thought you would thank me, you know, for having reduced Sexy to such a mess he'd fall right into your arms. And pants, incidentally."

Words were failing John. He had to muster all his self-control not to jump on the consulting criminal and choke him to death. But Moriarty was right: nothing was worth making Sherlock feel like he was responsible for John's death.

So the ex-soldier just stood there, trembling with a fury he had not thought himself capable of feeling.

Moriarty grinned, enjoying his dominance, and began pacing around the doctor like a predator circling its prey.

"So, is he any good? Most likely a quick learner, I bet. He must be so endearing, so keen to please you..."

"What game are you playing?" John growled threateningly, staring right in front of him, ignoring the madman's little theatrics. Or trying to.

"Game? I wouldn't play any game with you, pet. You're nowhere near smart enough."

John took a deep breath as his fists tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"So? How does it feel to have him all for yourself? Just where you want him, when you want him?"

"Shut up, just shut up."

"Is that a way to talk to your benefactor? Honestly, Johnny boy, you should be grateful to me."

"Grateful?" John echoed, disbelieving. "You tortured my best friend!"

"Which resulted in you finally being able to shag him," Moriarty pointed out innocently.

This time John couldn't take it and grabbed him forcefully by the collar of his shirt. Jim smiled.

"Don't be stupid. Just think of his face if he finds your brain splattered around when he arrives."

"Why would he come?"

"Oh, John, John, John..." Moriarty shook his head, putting his shirt back in place as John let go of him. "Do you really believe he's become such an idiot that he won't be able to deduce what's going on? That he won't find us?"

John glared.

"What are you trying to do?"

"You know, just while away the time. Isn't that what we all do?"

"Not in such a sick way."

"And who do you think is the sickest of all in this story? But you surprised me, John, you really surprised me... I didn't think you had it in you."

"Had what?"

Moriarty's eyes gleamed madly.

"The guts to take full advantage of this situation. It was quite clever, of course, but precisely..."

"I really don't care what you think," John interrupted firmly. "You're pathetic. You have such an empty, boring life that you must mess with other people's just to shake your boat. You like feeling all powerful, like the puppet-master pulling the strings, but in fact you are completely dependent on those you play with, because without toys, you'd just go mad. You actually need other people to shake off the boredom. You're like a kid who doesn't have friends nor a family to love him, completely alone in a room full of toys he can only use until he breaks them out of bitterness."

Moriarty's eyes widened, but soon his bewilderment was replaced by an expression of sheer glee.

"Ooh, you've really become interesting, Johnny! Still all righteous, which is kind of weird, considering the situation, but–"

"Is there anything you wanted to ask? I don't have all night," John cut in again, tired of the whole thing. Most of all, he did not want Sherlock to come here. If he could never see Jim Moriarty again, that would be for the best.

"Possessive, aren't we?" Jim smirked, resuming his circular pacing. "Did you have him yet? Or is it the other way around?"

"It really is none of your business."

"Umm, not yet, then. But tell me, doesn't it bother you?"

"What?"

"That he is doing this only to please you. Surely you must have realized by now."

John's eyes sent him daggers, but his lips remained tightly shut.

"I thought you'd still be the romantic type, even if you're clearly taking advantage of him... So, did you manage to make him tell you that he loves you?"

At this, John stared, not believing how weird this conversation was. Obviously, Moriarty was trying to mess with his mind. Still, John had never thought he would ever hear that kind of thing from Sherlock's nemesis.

"I don't need it," he replied simply.

Jim blinked.

"You don't need him to love you?" he reformulated. "Oh dear, you are even more cynical than I thought!"

"I don't need to hear him say it," John rephrased coldly.

The consulting criminal tilted his head to the side in ostensible confusion.

"So you believe he does love you? Ooh. Ha ha, I get it now! You really are twisted, Johnny, veeery twisted. I like it. Of course you would have made yourself believe it, so as to have a clear conscience, wouldn't you?"

John held up his gaze. Before his eyes images were flashing, fragments of never to be forgotten memories: Sherlock dropping the gun and coming to embrace him from behind, playing the Double concerto over his skin; Sherlock eating toast and drinking some horrible mixture to put on weight just because John had said he should; Sherlock rushing to take on a case he'd just refused because John had snapped at him; Sherlock using the belt so John would stop feeling bad about Mycroft's snide words; Sherlock having recourse to all necessary means to force a good night's sleep on John; Sherlock trying to make up for his manipulative attitude by letting John have his way with him (which was, in fact, only more manipulation; but John loved him for it nonetheless); Sherlock resting his brow against his chest as if John's heart was enough to support his great brain...

You are the unconditioned.

John barely repressed a small smile from playing on his lips. His voice was clear and steady as he looked into Moriarty's eyes and calmly repeated:

"I don't need to hear him say it."

Jim stared, then broke into a fit of demented giggles.

"Oh boy, you're so funny! Quite sure of yourself, too."

John did not find it necessary to tell Moriarty that he wasn't sure of anything, and did not expand on the subject. He doubted the maniac would ever understand why it didn't matter whether Sherlock was in love with him or not. As long as he was needed, and as long as he could help, John would stay, and give Sherlock whatever he wanted.

"Dedicated, aren't we?" Jim drawled, interrupting his thoughts.

John shrugged.

"Of course."

Just then he heard footsteps rushing up the stairs and along the corridor. His blood froze in his veins and his eyes widened in apprehension. Moriarty's face split into the widest grin.

"Oh, here comes our guest of honour. Seb?"

On Jim's notice, Sebastian suddenly jumped on John and pinned him to the bed before the doctor could realize what was going on.

"What the–"

The door was slammed open, and a breathless Sherlock burst into the room before John even finished his sentence. The ex-soldier glared, and changed the words he had in mind, this time addressing his friend.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sherlock? Get out, now!"

He knew his words were harsh, and considering his current position, could be construed in a terrible way; but that was precisely the point. He had to make Sherlock run away from here before Moriarty could do anything to him.

Sherlock, however, was not traumatized enough to be so easily duped. Locking his grave eyes with John's for a second, he soon shifted his attention to his archenemy.

"I am rather offended you didn't invite me to this little party," he said.

Jim beamed up at him.

"Sherlock! It is such a pleasure to see you again."

Sherlock did not answer, and instead fixed his gaze on John and Sebastian, analysing the situation and remembering each and every feature of the man for future use. Probably to kill him in the most painful way.

"Oh, don't glare like that, it doesn't suit you. Johnny boy and I were just having a little chat, weren't we, John?"

John did not reply, but looked up at Sherlock again. He did not dare move, for he knew Sebastian was armed; and even though Sherlock had surely brought John's gun, a sniper would always be quicker than the consulting detective. So John intensified his gaze, trying to convey the desperate message: Please go.

But Sherlock would buy none of it. Ignoring John, he addressed Moriarty:

"I see. Well, if you're done, we'll be taking our leave."

"I don't think so. But please take a seat! You can listen while we finish our little conversation."

Sherlock stared down at his nemesis icily, and read in his eyes that there was no way to avoid this.

"Tell your man to get off him right now, and I will sit down."

"Ooh, power play? But Sherly, dear, you don't have the power to request anything from me, you know. Though you could try begging, if you'd like."

At this point Sherlock took out the gun and aimed it straight at Moriarty's brow.

"Tell him to get off," he repeated, weighing each word.

Jim sighed. Sebastian got the message, took out his own gun, and pressed it against John's temple. Moriarty looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

"So what do you think? Is killing me worth losing him? Sebbie here won't care if you shoot me in the head or not. I gave him the order to kill Johnny boy if you tried anything, and he will. He is a good pet, you see. He listens."

But Sherlock did not back off, and insisted:

"Then order him to get off."

"Why? Do you think your pet might enjoy the contact too much?"

A flash of anger traversed Sherlock's darkened pupils and he gritted his teeth as he pressed the gun closer to his enemy's forehead. Jim grinned.

"I really am happy to see you, you know," he said, and from his face Sherlock was sure he wasn't lying.

Ignoring the gun against his forehead, Moriarty turned towards John and resumed their discussion. Apparently, he did not believe for a second that Sherlock would shoot, and did not care whether he kept holding his weapon or not. As harmless as a toy, his indifference seemed to say.

"I had been wondering, John, how come you could do it with a man. You know, you being straight and all... So did you discover a new facet of your personality? Did you realize that you actually enjoyed being subdued?"

John's eyes widened and Sherlock growled:

"I really am going to shoot you."

"No you're not," Jim retorted in his sing-song voice, his tone assured. Then to John: "We could reverse the roles, if you'd like. We could see how you dance with a man's cock up your arse, and Sherlock can enjoy the show just like you could enjoy his little strip dance last time. So what do you say? It's only fair, don't you think?"

"Shoot him," John said.

Everyone in the room seemed to freeze. John turned his face towards Sherlock and repeated sternly: "Shoot him."

Sherlock's heart missed a beat. He stared at his friend, wide-eyed, completely lost. The two utterances all at once were just too much. Moriarty's threat, and John's reaction: the latter basically amounting to him saying "I'd rather die".

But when he saw Sherlock's shattered gaze, John knew he couldn't ask this of him. Not that Sherlock wouldn't do it: he would, and then he'd be forced to watch as Sebastian put a bullet in John's head in return. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock would take less badly his flatmate being raped – this time, quite concretely – before his eyes. But if by any chance they could both make it alive out of here, John would be there to do everything in his power to convince Sherlock that he wasn't responsible, and that it was all fine.

The ex-soldier felt despicable for having considered his pride before even thinking of Sherlock. What was rape in the face of the life he would lead after John had died, killed before his very eyes, and because of him? So the doctor changed his mind, and stifling all protests from what he had left of his self-esteem, corrected:

"No, don't do it. I don't want to die."

They all stared at him for a second – Sebastian, obviously because he couldn't look anywhere else, in his position; Sherlock and Jim, because such a reversal in John's stance obviously wasn't believable as such, and in one second, one little second, John could almost hear the machinery in their brains working out his words, and deducing the truth of the situation.

Jim's face cracked into a wide, wide grin.

"Oh dear, he really would do anything for you," he told Sherlock. "No wonder you want to keep him. So, which of his pleas will you listen to?"

But Sherlock had regained some composure and replied evenly:

"None."

"None?" Jim repeated in surprise. Perhaps this time, it wasn't faked.

"None," Sherlock confirmed, the beginning of a smirk forming on his lips. "Because you won't do it."

"Ha! And what makes you say that?"

Sherlock put down his gun and started pacing around Moriarty, very much like Jim had done with John just a while before.

"You'd be bored," Sherlock whispered, relaxing as he slowly but surely put the situation under control. "You won't do it, because you would be bored without me."

From the bed, John stared, not having a clue what was going on. He couldn't see the link between the situation they were in, and Sherlock's words. At all.

Moriarty on the other hand seemed to get it very well. His smile widened and he burst out laughing.

"Oh, you're a funny one, Sherlock, a funny one! Where did you get such confidence? Is it from manipulating your pet?"

Sherlock glared at him, and John looked up, a frown on his face; seeing that he had their attention, Jim went on tauntingly:

"It is only natural you'd use the same means on him as on Pavlov's dog. He must be a very good pet, though, for I haven't seen any sign that you've mistreated him. Or is your method slightly different? Getting him addicted to pleasure, maybe. Well, to the pleasure only you can provide him with. You are smart enough to do that right, actually. You're so good at observing and deducing people that there is no reason you shouldn't know exactly what he desires even before he knows it. That's quite handy. You know his mind, you know his heart, and by now you must have become familiar with his body as well. And so you know perfectly what to do to get him addicted to you and have him dance in the palm of your hand. It is all chemistry after all, isn't it?"

Sherlock had stopped pacing and John's attention had shifted from Moriarty to his friend, watching his face closely. The detective wasn't denying it. In fact, dear old Jim seemed to have hit right home.

"I'm sure it is highly reassuring to hold such powers. At least your brain allows you to put him on a leash and only give him an impression of freedom. You're good: that's how dogs should be tamed and trained."

Sherlock did not dare look at John, and all his aplomb from a minute before had crumbled to pieces. He still had to get John out of here, however, and so he tried to collect himself.

But John had had enough and was quicker to react. Without warning he hit Sebastian's groin with his knee and pushed him back. Soon he was standing, the sniper just a few steps away, aiming his gun at him. John ignored him and turned to Moriarty instead.

"If you're done talking, I think we'll leave."

Moriarty pouted and said to Seb:

"See? I told you we should have handcuffed him to the bedpost."

Even though the remark must have been purely coincidental, Sherlock still paled with rage. But John's behaviour had snapped him out of his self-deprecation, and some assurance was back in his eyes.

"Are you interested, Sherlock? We can always get the handcuffs now and still have him dance. I'm sure Seb would be perfect for the job," Jim offered with a sick smile.

John sighed in exasperation.

"If that's what you want, let's just get on with it so it's done quickly," he snapped, excessively irritated with the situation.

"Oh, aren't you a bit too keen? It seems you haven't taken good care of him, Sherly," Moriarty remarked teasingly. Then to John, his tone jubilant: "And who said anything about it being quick? You had the leisure to enjoy Sexy's show for quite a while, after all. It's only fair you should return the favour, don't you think?"

John had to conjure up with all his strength the image of Sherlock broken beyond repair if he were to be killed tonight. He closed his eyes.

"Fine. Then let's–"

"Enough," Sherlock cut in sharply. He fixed his gaze on John and said: "Come here."

John blinked, confused. What was he on about?

"Let's leave," Sherlock developed, as John didn't seem to have any idea of what was happening.

They exchanged a look. Trust me, Sherlock's eyes seemed to say. John breathed in deeply and complied, ignoring the click of the gun in his back, ready to shoot any time.

But he made it to Sherlock's side without anything happening. His gaze never left his friend, and he did not even spare a glance at Moriarty, who was standing right next to Sherlock.

"Aw, leaving already?" Jim whined. "I'm sure you'd have enjoyed the show," he told Sherlock, who glowered down at him. "Oh well, I bet you've got something as good in mind to entertain him... You'll thank me another time! Do you think I should become a consulting therapist for challenged couples?"

As Moriarty's laughter filled the air, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and dragged him out of the room, down the corridor, down the staircase, out of the house and into the cab that had been waiting patiently outside, his meter on, because he had been told to do so.

John was in shock and just let himself be led, only snapping out of it once the car had pulled away.

"What just happened?" he asked.

Sherlock did not answer. After a moment of silence, John went on:

"Why did he let us go?"

"Because he'd done what he wanted already," Sherlock replied grimly.

"He had?" John said, still not believing his luck – if one could call it luck to have just been messed up verbally and not physically. But no matter how horrible their conversation had been, John could not help but feel relieved that he'd escaped rape.

"He wouldn't have done it," Sherlock said.

"How can you be so sure?"

The detective looked away, turning his face to the window.

"He wants to keep playing with me; so he cannot break you beyond repair, nor can he kill you. He might, if he ever gets tired of me. But in all likelihood, he will never find anyone as challenging as I am, and he would rather keep it that way. If he wants to put an end to our game one day, it will mean he is ready to put an end to his own life as well as mine."

John stared, unsure of the meaning of Sherlock's words. Moriarty would not attempt to kill Sherlock before he was ready to die himself? What in the world did that mean? But most of all, such reasoning meant that if John were to die, Sherlock would die as well; that if John were to be defiled and broken, he would be too, and would never want to continue the Work, no matter how important it was to him. He would stop everything, and be so broken himself he would no longer be entertaining to Moriarty. John shivered.

"Sherlock. Was it true? What he said about your... method."

The air became so heavy in the car that Sherlock thought he would suffocate. He did not, however, and keeping his eyes on the darkness of the countryside passing by out of the window, simply uttered one word, which he knew would make the tension in the air finally crush down on him:

"Yes."

xXx

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tbc