The battle was fierce as man and beast fought each other for the right to claim Jerusalem and its supposed holy relics, as their own. John's killing instincts came to fore as he bludgeoned, stabbed, and hacked his way through piles of dead and dying men. After the skirmish John rubbed down his battle weary horse, he stared into the brown eyes of the only true friend he had in this time-his horse, which John had secretly nick-named Hope. The horses of the Knights Templar were trained to do battle, and John's horse, Hope had saved his life several times already. John took a deep breath and leaned his head against Hope's head, "I have to go and tend the wounded, rest well my friend," John said as he made his way to where the injured were.
The wounded lay in the courtyard, as a priest administered last rites, and just as the soldier had taken over in the battlefield, the Doctor took over as John stitched up gashes, held the hands of a dying man, and screamed to anyone who would listen, "I need hot water and bandages-NOW." John shouted, as he struggled not to hyperventilate. John waved a priest away, "He's not dead yet and John knew if he slipped the man's chain mail off, his patient would bleed out. John reached a bloody hand up and grabbed the priest down next to him. "Hold his chain mail up like this, but wait for my say so," John said as he held up the chain mail up just enough to allow him to slip his hands underneath. "Now," John ordered as he slid his hands into the pile of intestine underneath gagging as the stench of perforated bowel overpowered him. The priest's grip wavered and John shouted again, "Don't even think about letting go." About the only thing John could do was to stitch up the small hole he could see in the colon and then stuff the intestine back in through the open wound. Someone had brought him a cauldron of hot water from the forge of the blacksmith and John kept his hands inside the man as he looked over at the priest, "I need you to get a clean sword from wherever you can and hold it in the forge of the blacksmith until it glows red. Do you understand?" John said breathing slowly to keep his hands from shaking. "Then go now and for the love of God, hurry." John said sternly.
It seemed as if the priest had been gone for hours when he finally came back with the sword; John cleaned the wound as best he could and then took the sword and cauterized the man's injury. Tears poured down John's face in an effort not to vomit and after he was through John swayed to his feet. "The man probably wouldn't live through the night," John thought as he wearily stitched up more gashes. His last patient was one of the warrior horses, a beautiful black animal that stood quietly by as John sewed up a slash on the horse's rump.
After he was done, John just stood in the blood strewn courtyard covered from head to toe in every imaginable fluid possible. Moriarty had been watching John, ignoring the gash on his forehead he walked over to where John stood, "John," Moriarty said softy as he took John's arm. "John, you did well today." Moriarty said as he brushed the blood that ran in his eyes. John's eyes darkened as he looked at Moriarty's pale white face, "Moriarty you're hurt let me take a look at that," John said as he gently examined the gash above Moriarty's eye, "You're lucky you didn't lose that eye. Keep some pressure on the wound and I will stich it up in our quarters," John said as he brushed the blood matted hair away from Moriarty's forehead. Looking both ways Moriarty stroked the inside of John's wrist. "John," Moriarty whispered as he stared at John with longing. John let his fingers lightly linger on Moriarty's forehead before he let his hand drop limply to his side. Moriarty's gazed never wavered from John's face as he pretended he was too weak to walk, without John's assistance. Neither of them noticed the figure in chain mail that quietly watched them from a darkened corner of the courtyard.
Once back in their quarters John let Moriarty clean his sword and then he helped John take off his filthy chain mail. The once white tunic with the Red Cross of the Templars was unrecognizable as Moriarty kicked it out the door. John sat naked on the bed, cuts and scrapes covered his entire body; he didn't seem to notice as stared off into the distance. Moriarty held a cloth to the wound on his head, as he helped John slip into a soft tunic and pants. He fingered the clothes that Moriarty had helped him put on and for the first time since they entered their quarters John looked up at Moriarty's forehead and without a word he stood up, cleaned the wound and examined it. "It won't need stiches," was the only thing John said as he sat back down on the corner of the bed.
Moriarty looked at John with a hunger in his eyes that John knew all too well. John turned away as Moriarty grabbed at his waist. "Sherlock was safe, so no need to give in to Moriarty's lustful advances for Sherlock was safe in the 21st Century," thought John as pushed Moriarty away.
Moriarty laughed, intrigued by John's reluctance, "John, I know you well enough by this time to know exactly what you are thinking and if you think that I can't reach Sherlock from here, then you are sadly mistaken. I can burn the heart out of him from anywhere. I can make him suffer, slowly," Moriarty said as he laughed and imagined Sherlock dying in the most horrible way he could conjure up.
John stared back at Moriarty in hatred, "How do I know you're not lying?" John asked.
Moriarty laughed again as he pulled John back against him, trying to keep his excitement at bay. Moriarty then began to kiss John's neck and in between kisses Moriarty whispered, "Do you really want to call my bluff, John? Do you really want to risk Sherlock's life-your heart," Moriarty spat as his hands found John's stomach. John didn't answer as Moriarty moved his hands lower, when they found what they were looking for, Moriarty ran his hands in and around his intended target. At first Moriarty's hands gently explored, and then as Moriarty began to breathe deeper, his explorations became more insistent, desperate. "Come on, John," Moriarty growled as he inserted his fingers deeper into to what he referred to as, "John's X marks the spot place." Then as Moriarty's fingers became moist with John's fluid he smiled, "That's it John, let me take you. Come on, John good boy. Let Moriarty make it all better," Moriarty whispered as he kept up his machinations.
John felt a variety of emotions, as he grabbed Moriarty, and pulled his body underneath him. Moriarty started to say something as John slapped him hard across the face, "Shut up," John shouted, as he positioned himself above Moriarty, "Just shut up," John said again, even though Moriarty lay silently beneath him. John's heart was pounding with anxiety, repulsion, and the delayed stress from battle, as he leveraged his body so that Moriarty would bear the most pressure from his deep penetrating thrusts. John let his mind drift as he grabbed Moriarty by the hair on each side of his head and each time he pushed himself deeper inside Moriarty, John would pull back on his head, making sure that Moriarty felt the full effect of each tunneling motion he executed. Moriarty whimpered, as John hit him again, "Shut up, this is what you wanted remember?" John hissed as Moriarty struggled beneath him and John didn't know whether Moriarty was struggling from pleasure or from pain, and as he attempted to release the stress that boiled deep down inside him, John didn't care.
Even though Mary's night vision was far superior to his own, she let Mycroft take her hand and lead her through the dark, narrow winding streets of Jerusalem. They finally stopped in front of a stone square house and Mary shivered. Mycroft slipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, "Are you cold my dearest?" Mycroft whispered into her ear.
Mary looked up at Mycroft and snuggled closer to him for she loved the scratchy feel of his beard and the warmth from his breath as it tickled her ear. Before Mycroft had even knocked at the door it was opened by an older woman, skin as brown as a nut, she looked like an apple doll and Mary shivered when she spoke, for her voice sounded young and full of power. "He's been expecting you two, he's through there," She said as she pointed to a room just beyond where they all stood, her eyes never leaving Mary's. Instinctively, Mary let go of Mycroft's hand and fingered the gun in her jacket pocket, its cold hard steel was more comforting that warmth of Mycroft's hand.
The first thing Mycroft noticed as they filed into the room where the creepy apple doll woman had pointed, was not the old man who sat in the middle of the room in a meditative pose, but all the broadswords, suits of chain mail, and other items of warfare from the 12th Century. The man opened his eyes; he had the same young, strong voice as the woman who had answered the door. "Mycroft, you have come for Sherlock? Have you not?"
Mycroft nodded in irritation, for he detested the weird sorts that Sherlock seemed to attract. "Where is my little brother, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked again, for he had already begun to lose his patience.
The man's brown eyes met Mycroft's blue eyes, "He is safe for the time being, but far beyond your reach."
Mycroft pulled the man to his feet, "Where is he?" Mycroft hissed.