A/N Bonus Fic Because I Can (BFBIC) is at the very end of the story, after the pointless but traditional disclaimer. It, the BFBIC, is short but sweet, rather like John.

Please note, if you prefer to avoid the following Warning, which might contain spoilers, skip ahead to the next line break. :D I shall continue posting warnings because some people request them. I shall add ridiculous BIFIC's because, well, because I can. :D

WARNING Rated M.

Use of coercive persuasion, which includes threats, psychological and physical abuse, and non-con touching.

Fantastic Cover Art for this story can be found at the artist's Tumblr site by Googling anyrei/Tumblr.

Abbreviations MSRA=Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. A fairly nasty bacterium, which most people would prefer not to come into close contact with.

****Chapter 33****

Previously in Chapter 31: When John woke up again, he was sitting in an old-fashioned sitting room in an overstuffed chair. It reminded all him of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Unfortunately, he was still handcuffed.

Sitting in another chair, grinning maniacally at him was the devil himself.

Well, John knew where he was now. He was in hell.

"Hello, Jim," said John smiling, with death mirrored in his dark, blue eyes.

The handsome psychopath's smile widened. He leaned forward to study John's face, as his head slowly swiveled from one side to the other, like a snake. "Morning gorgeous," said coy criminal mastermind.

"Is it morning?" asked John, rubbing his stubbled face with both hands.

"I don't know, is it?" teased the handsome devil. He was dressed in a fitted dark grey Westwood and a blood-red tie. At least John didn't see any blood-red roses.

The blond soldier sighed. He wasn't in the mood for Jim Moriarty's games. His wrists were still bound together by the sharp metal cuffs, and the skin underneath was red and raw. On top of that, he had an aching head and was still a bit dizzy...not to mention nauseous.

But…as bad as he felt, it was an improvement over how horrible he had felt in that closet, so John was happy.

Well, not exactly happy, he thought with a frown. Actually, he was angry, frightened and confused. Really, things couldn't be much worse. John tried to ignore his fear and clear the cobwebs from his head. The ex-soldier wrinkled his brow in concentration, which pulled at his scalp wound. He winced at the pain and felt the barest trickle of fresh blood seeping from the cut. Clearly, the damn thing needed stitches.

"Ow! I bet that hurts," exclaimed Moriarty, who jumped up to poke repeatedly at John's cut. "Does this hurt? Hm? Does it?" He smiled mischievously and licked the blood off of his finger.

"Dammit, of course it hurts," snapped the disgusted blond doctor, trying to lean away from Jim's painful caress. He raised his cuffed arms to fend off the mad vampiric wanker, but stopped when he caught movement, out of the corner of his eye. Oh, a bodyguard lurking in the shadows by the door. No, make that two bodyguards, both armed.

It was the subtle hints of blue-tinged light reflecting off a sleek black barrel, which had first caught John's eye. One of the guards had his gun pointed at John's head. The gun was an elegant customized Sig, with a hand-machined suppressor on the end. The gun was burnished, metallic sex, even if it was pointed at John's head.

The gunman, no the gun-woman, seemed to be a professional. John approved of her stance. Her hand was rock steady, and her eyes did not drift off target. She glared fiercely, looking as if she really wanted to fire a round into John's head.

The former army captain glared balefully at the guards, especially the scowling woman; he also lowered his arms with his hands held outward to appease the hostile bodyguard.

John swung his blue-eyed glare back to James Moriarty.

"Two?" asked John, raising his brows even if it did make his wounded temple hurt. "Really? Two bodyguards? I didn't think I was that dangerous. Should I be flattered?" asked John with a tight grin.

"I've read un-redacted accounts of your wartime exploits," said Jim comfortably, "If you weren't both handcuffed and injured, I assure you there would be more than two guards. You know, I like that dark soldierly glare you have going on over there, John Watson. It's a tiny bit sexy."

James leaned down, cupping John's jaw, kissing John's ear and behind his ear, then trailing down his neck.

"Look could you not do that!" snapped the blond, instinctively leaning away from his captor. James giggled, and with a hand on the blonds chin, the Irishman roughly pulled John back for more kisses.

The gunwoman, who John had mentally christened Svetlana, leaned forward to show off her beautiful but deadly weapon. The ex-army doctor was helpless, and so he sat still, clenching his jaw and fists.

John tried to distract himself from Jim's abuse by calculating how long he'd been in prison.

If it was morning, John must have been a captive for half a day already. Surely, if Sherlock had planned to rescue his boyfriend, it would have happened by now. So something had happened to Sherlock…or maybe he was just busy with that smuggling case. Maybe the consulting detective didn't even know that John was missing yet.

Now Moriarty was in John's lap…okay things had just gotten worse and escape was pretty much impossible. The only way to avoid Jim was suicide by Svetlana.

The sadistic genius was wiggling around and sloppily kissing the doctor's neck and the bit of John's chest that peeked from under his soiled button-up shirt.

John consoled himself with the knowledge that Harry was safely out of the way. Hopefully, Mycroft Holmes would keep Sherlock safe too.

John kept his smile plastered on his face and prepared for escape plan A. He would stand and fight Jim off, which meant Svetlana would shoot him and he'd die. But he'd die without being buggered by a vampire-demon criminal mastermind.

"Now, now Johnny, no need to yourself all worked up…yet," Moriarty chided. The brunet very slowly rose to a stand, smoothing his bespoke suit. "I just wanted to get a little taste of what I've been missing," said the brunet, leaning his hands on John's shoulders. He stared into John's eyes and then bent down to deliver a simple chaste kiss to John's neck again. "It's just a teensy taste of what we can look forward to tonight."

John froze…Okay, he had until tonight before Jim attacked his person. Plan A was put on stand-by, for now.

Jim smiled knowingly, no doubt reading John's mind. The demonic genius scattered kisses on the blond's neck. The ex-soldier shuddered, while Jim's strangely cold lips ghosted across his skin kissing lightly at first, and then once more sucking like a lamprey.

With plan A on temporary hold. John needed plan B. But plan B was always retreat, which was currently a no go…So on to plan C, distract and delay the enemy.

The former doctor tried to take a calming breath, and then he stammered, "Well, would you stop…stop sucking bruises on my neck, if I said that I had a headache?" asked John. It was difficult to speak because his mouth was so dry. "Because I do… have a headache, that is."

"Nope."

John glowered down at the brunet. "Would you stop, if I said I felt sick to my stomach?"

"If he sicks up, shoot him," ordered the malevolent Irish Casanova.

John frowned. Right, suicide by sicking-up could be his plan D, yeah D for desperate, thought the doctor. Sadly, it was no better than plan A. Maybe even worse since it involved vomiting. He would definitely hold plan D in reserve too.

"Did you know," offered the former military doc, "Did you know that I was, um, recently at St. Bart's Hospital, and I was exposed to MRSA?"

"I'm beginning to feel like you didn't miss me. I'm hurt," said James with a fake pout.

John thrust his head forward and glared into the devil's dark eyes. He continued stubbornly, "You should know that MRSA is a virulent strain of flesh-eating bacteria, and it is highly resistant to medical…"

"You weren't exposed to any bacteria, Doctor Watson. Next time, try a little harder to be more convincing, Johnny," James hissed. He cuffed John, making his ears ring and the room spin.

The blond pressed his lips together but a small moan, born of pain, nausea and a growing sense of desperation, snuck through. Plan D might just be implemented accidentally.

"Hmmm" moaned John, "…mmmm, yeah. Well, I was exposed. And MRSA is resistant to medical therapy and when I say virulent I …I mean contagious, mmmmm, quite contagious."

Jim Moriarty ripped John's shirt open and violated his neck again, biting more than kissing. The bodyguard gave John the evil eye, so resistance was clearly futile unless John was ready to commit to plan A or plan D or fucking whatever.

John tried to escape reality by sinking into his targeting zone. But even with his breathing, his mental escape wasn't working as well as it should. John blamed his head trauma and dehydration for the failure. The panic beast inside his chest wasn't helping much either.

"Dammit!" grunted John in pain, because the damn lunatic bit him again. "Look, James! What is it that you want?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Johnny," said Moriarty. He stood and held his hand to the side imperiously. The second bodyguard stepped forward and dropped a moistened serviette into the criminal mastermind's hand. James wiped his mouth and his hands thoroughly and dropped the serviette onto the floor.

The young bodyguard, little more than a boy to John's eyes, poured Moriarty a glass of some ice-cold beverage, and then returned to his post.

The smirking madman sat back in his chair and took a sip his icy drink. Then he tilted his head to the side and watched John as if he were waiting for something to happen. John watched the water dripping down the side of the glass and realized that he was very, very thirsty. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had anything to drink.

An inspired thought suddenly occurred to John Watson. Everything that had just happened had seemed planned. It was as if it had all been choreographed in advance by the demonic genius. Said genius grinned as if he had once more read John's mind.

"I suppose you aren't going to offer me any of that…um, drink?" asked John testing the waters.

"No, I don't think that I will," said Moriarty agreeably.

"Why? I mean what is the purpose…I mean why are you doing this; what do you want from me?" asked John. His cottony tongue stuck to his mouth, and he couldn't take his eyes off of the glass. He thought maybe it was lemonade in the glass.

"Well," said James, shrugging as if he were unsure. "I guess I'm doing it… because I can."

"No. There's more to this," asserted John, firmly convinced that he was on the right track. "This whole set up is to make me feel powerless. Why? Do you want information? Is this your version of refined interrogation?"

"More," said Moriarty smirking.

"More? More what?" John found his heart was pounding out of control. Panic, which was just what that bastard wanted, no doubt. "You want me afraid, off-balance because…because…you're trying to brainwash me?"

"Good! Now that wasn't so hard was it?" said the gloating evil genius. "Although brainwashing is so 1990's. I prefer to call it coercive persuasion."

"You would," muttered John.

"And, Johnny," said Moriarty. "I don't try…I do."

"Oh yeah? What? Like a dark-sided Yoda?" snarled John. Then he added in a high-pitched imitation of the Jedi, "Do or do not. There is no try."

"Just so," agreed Jim uncertainly. He glared at the blond's teasing.

"You don't even know who Yoda is," goaded John.

The urbane criminal scowled darkly, "Johnny-boy, soon you will be begging to tell me everything," said the criminal mastermind. "You'll tell me all about this Yo-da. You'll tell me all about Sherlock too."

"Y'know, if you just ask nicely, I might tell you everything you want to know without all this..." The handcuffed blond waved his bound hands around vaguely, "without all this coercive bullshit."

"Now. Now. That would be dull," the brunet held up his hand to prevent John's interruption. "But seriously, I can't trust you. Not yet. I never trust anyone who I don't control. Besides, you've been corrupted, pet. He got his hands on you somehow and made you think that you care about him. So I'll have to re-program you and get rid that hold he has on you."

"Who?" asked John, playing dumb.

"Oh don't play dumb, John," said James sulking. "At least don't play dumber than you really are. I mean Sherlock, ob-vious-ly. He's contaminated you, and now I have to start over."

The brunet suddenly brightened. "But the good news, is that it'll be fun claiming you. I will have to punish you a little bit though. It was very naughty of you to cheat with Sherly. But the punishment will make it fun…for me anyway."

"Jesus," snapped the ex-army doctor. "Why d'you want me anyway? I'm not anything special. And you know, I can't talk or whatever if I get too dehydrated." He glared at the glistening drink, as James swirled the glass around, making the ice clink enticingly.

"Well...but it will make you more malleable," said the brunet smugly.

"I don't understand," muttered John.

"Of course not. Nobody understands me," said Moriarty plaintively. "Forget the drink, if you can. You'll drink when I want you to. Now to answer your other question. I want you, John Watson, first and foremost, because you're eminently fuckable. And you're dangerous which makes you not boring. And once you're safely reprogrammed, you'll be my little secret weapon against Sherly and I can't wait for that. And then finally, once he's been dealt with, you'll be my personal bodyguard and all around boy-toy. I might even send you out on a few jobs. You'll like those, Sebby loves them."

"What's going to happen to Sherlock," asked John, focusing on the threat to the man he loved.

"See! See! You're all obsessed and worried about that skinny detective when you should be thinking about me, your real boyfriend," complained Jim. "I'll tell you what's going to happen to your can't keep his nose out of other people's business detective. He is going to be punished. He is going to get burned…and you're going to be the fire that burns him, Johnny. Oh yes, he has a lot to pay for. He's been getting in the way of my operations for months. He ruined my game with the cabbie. Just now, he cost me nine million pounds," Moriarty dropped his eyelids and his voice low, "And don't lets forget, Sherly fucked my little boyfriend before I could…"

"Now wait a minute," interrupted John. "It's my fault. It's all my fault. I messed up the game you were playing with Hope. And, I found Sherlock and I...I fucked him not the other way around, so I'm the one you should punish."

"Oh don't worry, Johnny. Daddy's going to punish you," Moriarty's dark leer sent the panic roiling inside John once more. "But remember, John Watson, your punishment has a purpose too. It's going to hurt…but it will forge you into a fine weapon. Maybe the best," he ended with a whisper.

"But Sherlock…"

"But Sherlock!" mimicked James. "Sherlock Holmes is going to pay his half of the bill. Oh, and John? Sherlock fucked you. You were the bottom…you are a natural bottom."

"But I wasn't even gay two weeks ago!" yelled the blond in frustration and fear for Sherlock.

"You are a pistol, Johnny," said the brunet. Then he added to himself, "I can't wait to see you in action." The criminal mastermind sat meditatively, swirling his drink around and around.

John tried to ignore the tempting glass of lemonade; he shut his eyes and sighed.

"Sebby!" called James suddenly.

John's eyes flew open.

The Colonel stalked into the room, exuding hostility and danger. He all but growled at the injured blond.

"You're all set up for your call sir," said Sebastian Moran, "Marco says the signal's strong and there's no interference from the jammer."

Jammer? What kind of jammer, wondered John.

"Why do you need a jammer?" asked John.

"In case my pets have mobile phones with GPS devices," said James. "Of course your mobile got tossed on the tracks and has probably gotten shmushed to pieces. Sorry, your detective ex-boyfriend won't be calling you here…or tracking you down. Anyway, I don't want people spying on me, you'd be shocked at how our own government eavesdrops; it's just despicable. And those Americans?Terrible. They just don't respect privacy anymore. Encryption helps, but it's not should get a jammer too. Everyone should use them. Of course then we couldn't use our phones..."

While Jim Moriarty continued on his rant, John's mind was racing. Of course, that explains why Sherlock hadn't found him yet. The jamming thingy was probably blocking the EMITTING thingy. John had to find a way to get outside the house or out side of the radius of the jammer. John wasn't quite sure; after all he wasn't real good with techie things. The point was, he needed to get away from the jamming thing so the EMITTING thingy could emit its signal, then maybe Sherlock would send the police or even Mycroft's mysterious minions…

John noticed that Sebby and Jim were staring at him. The demonic criminal had ended his tirade. Jim, who now wore a fading smirk, had apparently poured his drink out onto a plant; the empty glass hovered over the disheveled silk flowers. A single drop lingered on the rim before dropping down onto the arrangement.

The blond doctor blinked. Ohhh, that little demonstration was supposed to torment John. The ex-captain tried to play along. He wrinkled his brow and put a tormented look on his face.

James scowled. "Oh just stop it, John Watson. You're really a terrible liar. It was probably too early to pull that stunt. You know, I didn't like these flowers anyway. Sebby, make sure you toss 'em and order some lovely, fresh roses, red ones. Also, I need Johnny cleaned up before I take him to bed with me…"

"But we can't have…we can't go to bed together. It hasn't been three dates yet," protested John.

"Yes it has," insisted James. "It's three dates, if we count the luncheon."

"I don't think we can count the lunch."

"Well, I do!" snapped James. "And I am going to fuck you good. I'll fuck Sherlock Holmes right out of you, starting tonight."

"But…" began the doctor.

"Shut it, Watson!" ordered Moran.

"Make me!" said the former captain, standing again despite his dizziness.

Sebastian Moran lunged at the smaller blond, who stood firm, ready to face the oncoming freight train.

Moriarty snapped his fingers. Sebastian froze with his hand raised. Then he dropped his hand and stood at attention, his chest heaving with fury. The woman John called Svetlana pistol whipped the ex-captain and pushed the dazed doctor back into his chair.

"Jeesh! I guess I can't leave you boys alone together," muttered James Moriarty, while he absently nibbled at a fingernail. "Sebby, one of these days you're going to have to learn to play nice with Johnny." He sighed dramatically.

"Candice," continued the brunet, to the gun-woman. "Wait about half an hour, then take Johnny-boy outside and hose him down. Be sure to use lots of soap. Use that rose soap that I like. He won't be needing clothes." Moriarty slapped John's face playfully. "Oh and make sure he brushes his teeth too. Sebby, you come with me, but you are being punished…" The criminal boss and his glowering lieutenant exited through the French Doors.

John smiled at Svetlana, aka Candice.

"Is Candice your real name?" he asked.

The gun-woman slapped him.

Since she used her hand, instead of her sexy gun, it didn't hurt as much. John figured that she was starting to like him. Maybe just a little. He smiled his best fake smile, and she slapped him again.

Nah, she didn't like him at all. She was probably brainwashed too. Probably all the henchmen here had been brainwashed, including Sebastian.

Since he was already dizzy from Candice's blows, John refrained from asking any other questions.

None of that mattered anyway. What mattered was planning his escape and resisting Jim's coercive persuasion. John tethered his fears and tried to come up with an escape attempt , which did not leave him dead. And the former army captain didn't have very long to plan his escape. He had, what, thirty minutes? Yep, he had about thirty minutes before getting dragged further into hell.

A/N Sorry for the delay. This chapter has been a pain in my keyster (that's arse for those not familiar with the term keyster). I have literally re-written this four times. Talk about writers block...Well, let's not.

And then the editing and re-editing. Suffice it to say I can not read this chapter any more. I apologize in advance for all my mistakes. Despite spellcheck and my attempts at editing, I am sure I've missed errors. Please alert me if you find them, and I shall fix them. And yes, I am shamelessly asking you to act as proofreaders. Virtual cookies will be offered as payment. (Obviously I'll serve virtual biscuits to those from the other side of the pond).

Heck, I'll serve virtual cake for all of you, even if you don't proof read. Now lets see, shall we have virtual Devil's Food Chocolate Cake in honor of Jim "the devil in Westwood" Moriarty or virtual Angel Food Cake in honor of Sherlock "I may be on the side of the angels" Holmes?

No, Mycroft. You may not have any cake. You let John be kidnapped, so no cake for you.

On the plus side, the next two chapters were a piece of cake to write and will be up with in a few days. (When I post them, and in honor of John H. Watson, I will be serving virtual Johnny Cake, of course. (Which is old-fashioned corn bread and pretty damn tasty, let me tell you! It's especially good with butter and honey, mmmm!) (And no, Mycroft, you may not have any Johnny cake either.)

Thank you so much to everyone who is reading this story. To those of you who are favoriting or following my story, thank you so very much.

Enormous, great-big, happy-down-to-the-tips-of-my-toes thanks go to those who have reviewed my fic including: 107602, Erenem, tw1pad, EJ12212012, anyrei1, QuietTime, Blue Summer Field, SamuelE8688, foxeeflame, .Etc.4evrz, animeWatson, Snowphire. Your comments, con-crit and questions inspire me, teach me and give me great joy. Thank you.

Disclaimer-It may come as a surprise to some of you…it did to me…but I do not own the rights to Sherlock in any of its incarnations. Wow. Go figure.

Bonus Fluff Because I Can (BFNIC)

a/n WOCD is an infrequently used abbreviation for World's Only Consulting Detective. But I'm sure that you already knew that.

What Happened Before

The British Government's diplomatic throat clearing caused John to bolt to a stand so that he could fight off any unwarranted threats. Unhappily, John also dumped the WOCD onto the floor, whilst spilling his tea on Sherlock's ebon curls.

Oh dear, I cannot watch to see what happens next…

What Happened Next (Obviously I, the narrator, could watch and did...sounds kind of creepy when I put it like that.) ANYWAY...

What Happened Next

"I'm not gay!" John shouted in panic.

The Holmes brothers looked at John in confusion.

"But John, you're in a relationship with my brother," said Mycroft.

"Still not gay."

"You're ridiculous," said Sherlock, rising to his full six feet. He perhaps looked a bit shorter with his very wet hair.

"I might, possibly concede bisexuality or even homosexuality," said John with a determined, soldierly face.

This announcement was met with awkward silence.

"I need some jam," said John, who marched stiffly to the kitchen. This was nothing new, he always walked like that.

"Now look what you've done. You know he has PTSD from all the times you've kidnapped him!" growled Sherlock. "And don't think I didn't tell Mummy about the last time…leaving my blogger alone in the middle of that highway."

"He was once soldier. He seemed to manage."

"He was picked up by bikers!" yelled Sherlock. "Do you know what they wanted to do to him?"

"Do you?" sneered Mycroft. "I know sex scares you."

Sherlock scowled. As much as he enjoyed coitus, copulation, fellatio, hand-jobs, blow-jobs, fucking, sucking, frotting (well, you get the point), still, Sherlock had a strange fear of the word* sex, and Mycroft never hesitated to rub it in.

"What do you want anyway," groused the WOCD who wanted to console his blogger for the trauma caused by Mycroft's invasion of their domicile. In fact, mused Sherlock, both he and John would probably need to share a good shagging to recover from this most recent intrusion. But neither John nor Sherlock would call it gay sex, in consideration of their respective semantic phobias or oronomatophobias as the wordy genius preferred to call them.

Mycroft, in an unusual display of sibling thoughtfulness, waited until his brother completed his musings…

TBC

*Onomatophobia is the fear of certain words. I found it on line, so it must be true. Right? :D