John woke up. Hadn't he done it before already? Several times? Or had that been part of the nightmare, too? Christ, he hadn't had such a bad one in ages. Something was very wrong. He felt disoriented, and sick. Food poisoning maybe? Or was Sherlock experimenting on him again?

Last he knew, he'd been eating dinner with Sherlock and then he went to bed… Sherlock was there with him. Strange, but not impossible. And they'd been laughing about something. Had they been drinking? No, that didn't seem very likely. But why had they been giggling so much, then?

"Sherlock?" he called, but his voice sounded wrong, dry and gritty as the sand.

John glanced around, but the small room was completely deserted, and foreign. He sat up in surprise at such surroundings, regretting the sudden movement immediately when he was hit by another wave of nausea. What was wrong with him? And where was he? This was neither Baker Street, nor a hospital, or any other place he was used to waking up to. It felt more like a cell, but what he was wearing and the plastic bracelet at his wrist…

His insides turned cold and he vomited this time, bending over the side of the bed just in time. What the fuck was he doing in a psychiatric ward? What had happened? Where was Sherlock?

"Sherlock!" he called and scrambled out of bed. "Sherlock!"

The door swung open before he could reach it and two strong men in dark blue uniforms stepped in. Guards? No, nurses.

"Calm down," the tallest said, approaching slowly with raised hands, while the other wrinkled his nose and cursed. "You don't want any trouble. It's late and everyone is sleeping, so why don't you go back to bed now?"

"Make him clean up first," the other whined.

John looked between the two men, gauging his chances of slipping past them. They were slim, and even if he hadn't been feeling like he was dying of food poisoning, he knew there would be more staff and locked doors behind them.

"Devon," the first snapped in reprimand. "Mr Watson, please return to your bed."

John looked behind him at the legless cot jutting out of the wall, at the lack of other furniture save another similar surface jutting out of the wall that might be a chair… or a table? This place was very confusing.

"I shouldn't be here," John said, willing him to understand. He wasn't addressing Devon, he was a lost cause, but the other guy, the muscular blond with the amiable smile, he seemed alright.

"We'll sort everything out in the morning," the nice nurse promised. "If you return to your bed."

John obeyed, albeit reluctantly, if only because his legs felt like jelly, and he knew he'd get no answers in the middle of the night, whether he made a scene or not.

"Good. Now I'm going to put these restraints on you, just long enough for me to clean everything up. I'll take them off again when I'm done, alright?"

The nurse magicked padded restraints from his bed. John was reluctant to comply, but if he was making the poor man clean up his sick, the least he could do was reassure him he wouldn't be assaulted while he did so. John sighed and nodded, presenting his wrists.

"Good," the man said, sounding genuinely pleased, then turned towards his colleague. "Devon, get the mop."

The whiny nurse disappeared, but the nice one reappeared after a moment with a glass of water.

"To get rid of the taste" he explained.

John let him help drink it all up. He would have preferred brushing his teeth, but he was so thirsty anyway that he downed the whole cup in a few seconds. He knew it wasn't recommended when you had an upset stomach, but he was past caring at this point. Besides, he felt a lot better already, sleepy and he didn't care so much about… something… Couldn't be so important after all…

"He's sleeping already!?" Devon whined on the edges of John's consciousness. "All that circus and he's sleeping? That guy is seriously deranged."

John didn't care, he was far too relaxed.

ooo

John was awake, and not awake. Walking in an ever changing world that was as volatile and violent as his worse nightmares, but interspaced with glimpses of a more tangible world which were shut out as soon as he tried to reach through to them and leave the terrifying fog behind.

One such occasion presented itself when he was sitting behind a wall, taking cover from a sniper while his comrades all lay dead or dying around him. Suddenly, his brothers in arms changed faces, became slack jawed men he'd never seen before, sitting or stumbling around a large room. One was lying on the floor, flapping his arms to make a snow angel although John was pretty sure there was no snow there, because why would they be snow inside? John startled when someone talked beside him, pleading.

"-me something, John. It's important."

It was as if the sound had suddenly been switched on. John didn't understand what had been said to him but he knew that voice.

"Greg?" he asked, blinking at the man beside him.

"John? Yes, it's me!" Greg had looked happy for all of an instant, before his face fell. "How are you?"

"Not well…" John replied groggily. "Where are we?"

John was having difficulties processing his surroundings. This place didn't look like a normal hospital, this room looked like a recreation room for long term patients, but the patients... something was off.

"The...err... secure facility attached to Nightvale," Greg replied, fidgeting.

John frowned, trying to make sense of that answer. So it was a hospital, he'd gotten that right, but secure facility? Wasn't that a psychiatric ward for the criminally inclined?

"Why?" he croaked, then more importantly: "Sherlock?"

"You don't remember anything? John, it's important. It's about the Valentine murders. Your… There was another murder and you-"

"Sherlock?" John demanded again, louder this time.

Had something happened to Sherlock? He couldn't have been killed by that lunatic. Not Sherlock. No, no, no!

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," someone cut in, dropping a beefy hand on Greg's shoulder.

That man was familiar... The strong nurse with the dark blue uniform. He'd been nice. Greg was protesting, but the nurse was having none of it, pointing out that he was disturbing all the patients. John needed to know what was going on though, so he tried clinging to Greg's arm, and before he knew it, patients were screaming and the staff was pouring into the large room to put everything back in order while the nice nurse was taking him away from the noise and everyone else. But he wasn't taking him to his room. Not that John would know if there hadn't been a sign indicating the rooms were in the opposite direction. "Where are we going?" he asked, looking up at his nurse.

"For a walk. Some fresh air would do you some good."

John didn't protest, but the nurse hurried him along anyway, wrenching his arm forward in such a manner that John stumbled to catch up with his long strides. They walked through several locked doors without meeting anyone and finally exited the building into an underground parking. Strange place for a walk, but no stranger than the places he'd walked through lately. He'd take a parking lot smelling of motor oil over the blood-drenched fields of Afghanistan anytime.

"This way," his companion said, pushing him towards a nondescript black car with tinted windows that screamed of a kidnap car so much, John started scrabbling backwards, his slippers sliding under him.

"None of that now," his nurse chided, pushing him forward with ease.

He opened the door and put a hand over John's head to ease him into the car before taking the seat next to him.

"How nice of you to join me."

John was hit by the familiarity of that voice too, but it wasn't one he'd expected, nor wished to hear, ever again.

"Seb tells me you've been such a good boy, too."

John recoiled at the gentle pat he felt on his knee but forced himself to look into the gleeful face of Jim Moriarty. It didn't make sense, nothing did. Was he lost in another one of his nightmares? Had he just replaced the war by the madness? But no, everything felt much more real and solid than before. Clearer. John glanced at his nurse who'd become stony-faced, his usually friendly smile wiped clean off.

"Not too talkative, are you?" Moriarty asked.

"He's just come out of it, sir," the nurse put in, sounding gruff. "A good thing you kept tabs on that inspector. I extracted Watson just in time."

Moriarty cackled.

"Welcome amongst your fellow fugitives, then, Dr Watson. You're now officially a 'person of interest' to the nation," he said with mocking air quotes. "Naughty, naughty, escaping like that. Right under your friend's nose, too. I hope he won't be in trouble."

John winced at the way Moriarty sang the last syllables. He was confused by what was going on, but something that made the consulting criminal so happy could not be good.

"Why?" John managed.

"Why…? Why am I doing this? Because it's fun, of course! Call it a side-project if you will. Like a hobby. I tried knitting, but it just wasn't doing it for me."

At which point John decided it was no use talking to the man. Mad as a hatter, he was. He watched the streets of London whisk by the tainted windows instead, but quickly gave up when the motion made him feel sick again. Drugs. That explained a lot. How long had he been kept under like that? And with what. He tried figuring out what sort of substance could account for his symptoms but had to give that up too as his mind was still too muddled.

"What now?" he asked Moriarty, needing a distraction from the car's motions.

"Now, I have someone to watch the drama unfold with me. We can eat popcorn. Won't that be fun?"

No. No, it wouldn't. But if Moriarty was playing a game…

"Sherlock?"

Moriarty pouted.

"Boring. Locked in his so-called mind-palace. I just want to… poke him so badly when he does that. Think he gave up on you?" Moriarty asked, brightening up at the jab, but John couldn't care less. Sherlock was alright then, he wasn't the third victim of the Valentine killer. Because that's why Greg had come by. He hadn't had time to say a lot, but John got that much.

"It was you. The Valentine Killer? You framed me."

"Oh please, that was Seb. As if I'd sully my hands with such chores. Do keep up, Johnny Boy, or I might get bored with you, and you wouldn't like that. Not. One. Bit."

John glanced in turn at Moriarty and Seb, his nurse-serial-killer, wondering which of the two was worse. He settled on silence once more, trying to gauge how much of a ridiculous situation he'd found himself. His life turned upside down because a consulting criminal was bored.

It was impossible to keep track of time, not with his mind still so sluggish, so John was surprised when he was ushered out of the car, unsure whether he'd been riding for ten minute or an hour, and into what had to be Moriarty's evil lair, despite it looking so normal. He'd half expected something like a gothic castle or a gleaming metal fortress, something a bit more villainy, but if that meant he could escape more easily, he wasn't complaining. But escape to what? Had he really become a fugitive of the law against his will? Was that even possible? He could go to Sherlock. He was fairly certain Sherlock would believe him. But John was also fairly certain Sherlock would be watched, and not least of all by his brother. So, no thank you, he had no desire to be in Mycroft's tender care. The man already gave him the creeps when they were on amicable terms, not that he'd admit it to anyone, but now, Mycroft would probably consider him a threat to Sherlock and really, no one should have as much power as that man did, because John was convinced Mycroft would just make him disappear somewhere, or send him back to Nightvale where Moriarty would just pick him up again. He was in a no-win situation. Not that he had much of a choice anyway. He knew deep down no one escaped Moriarty's clutches. The last time, at the pool, he'd been let go, but this time... he'd need a miracle.

John had let his nurse steer him out of habit. A bad habit he was intent of breaking out of as soon as his mind wasn't so unfocused all the time. He was almost relieved to find himself sitting in front of several computer screens set on a large desk. This was much more super-villain material. Moriarty invited him to take the only seat. It looked like a standard office chair, comfortably padded and mounted on little wheels. John eyed it with distrust because he was just that paranoid about Moriarty and his games.

"It's not booby-trapped, pet," Moriarty said with an exaggerated eye-roll.

John sat on it gingerly and Seb immediately loomed over him with duct-tape. John kicked out but was only met with a wall of compact muscles he probably hadn't so much as bruised.

"Don't fight me, doc," Seb warned, and before he knew it, he had his feet and hands strapped to the chair. The large man then left without another word and John found himself en tête à tête with the madman. John almost missed Seb at that moment, even knowing he was a fake-nurse-real-murderer.

"Time to entertain ourselves, Johnny boy" Moriarty whispered in his ear as he reached over him for the keyboard.

John twitched at the proximity, but he was soon distracted by the screens which displayed a news channel, Scotland Yard and even Baker Street. The first two weren't very interesting but on the third, Sherlock was still as a statue in the middle of the living-room, sitting lotus style on the floor.

"You've got to be kidding," John muttered.

How did Sherlock not know about that camera? He swiped the place several times a week. John had even called him out on his paranoia and yet, there was the proof it was perfectly justifiable.

"He's still at it," Moriarty grumbled, flicking the screen with Sherlock's image. "Boring. Well, that should change soon enough."

Moriarty's fingers then danced for a long moment on his phone. John didn't care, he could see Sherlock, living, breathing and free, and that gave him strength. He could put up with Moriarty. Better him than Sherlock. Sherlock had been way too fascinated by his nemesis.

"It's time for the showdown!" Moriarty suddenly exclaimed, making John jump in his chair where he'd almost nodded off staring at Sherlock.

He pointed a finger at the first screen and there was Greg taking a call at his desk at Scotland Yard. He looked ragged but his expression hardened as he listened to the other end of the line, then hung up, let his head fall in his hands for a few seconds before he stood, gesticulated and bellowed orders on his way out. Even without the sound, John could guess what what going on. Moriarty chuckled, but John ignored him, watching as the camera switched to the outside of Scotland Yard where a flurry of police cars were speeding away, lights flashing and, he imagined, sirens blazing.

"Ah, isn't this all so dramatic, pet," Moriarty fake-sighed. "How long do you think it will take until your inspector calls Sherlock? I think they had a bit of a fallout because of you. Poor Sherlock is all alone. Even his own brother won't help him, you know. How sad is that?"

John scowled at Moriarty. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock butted heads with Greg or Mycroft, but knowing he was the cause of it didn't sit all that well. Did that mean the two of them had given up on him? Believed he had killed Brawley, Cornwall and… Who was the third victim? Greg had said there had been a third but he hadn't mentioned who. John had feared it had been Sherlock, but that was obviously not the case. It had to be someone he had known and butted heads with at some point in his life… So who? The only one he could ask was Moriarty, and he debated whether to question him, but what good would knowing the victim's name do, in the end?

Fingers snapped right in front of his nose, jerking him out of his thoughts.

"Stay with me, Johnny boy! The show isn't over yet."

This time, his eyes were drawn to the news channel because of the words BREAKING NEWS and VALENTINE KILLER flashing across the screen. They were announcing his escape and then, to his horror and consternation, his bloody picture, a very unflattering one at that, was there on the screen warning people not to approach him and call the police if seen. John groaned. Of course he'd made the headlines as a serial killer. Just peachy. And Moriarty was laughing himself silly as he took in his expression and the nonsense the news was spouting. He hoped the madman choked on his own tongue. John glanced at Sherlock, his only island of calm in this madness, but it wasn't to last.

"Oh, Johnny boy," Moriarty said sitting on his lap and patting his cheeks. "You do look so fierce like that."

John growled, barely holding himself back from biting off the other man's cold fingers. Moriarty giggled.

"Maybe I should put a collar on you," he teased. "Is that what Sherlock does, pet?"

John ignored him and turned his eyes towards Sherlock at the mention of his name. He was as immobile as he'd been since he appeared on the screen, looking more like a photograph than video footage.

"What do you think? Should I tell him about your spectacular escape? It looks like he has no one to tell him the good news."

Before John could retort, Sherlock came back to the real world quite dramatically, in a flurry of limbs, scrambling for his phone. He smirked at Moriarty who had apparently miscalculated. Sherlock read a message, then darted for his laptop and looked intently at it for a while before settling into his thinking pose, sprawled in the sofa with his hands steepled beneath his chin. Moriarty jumped off his lap, finally, and was using both phone and computer frantically.

"Urgh," he spat. "Your sister. There's always something."

John froze because he did not just hear that. Okay, yeah, he knew Moriarty and Sherlock were somewhat similar, but this was creepy, an echo from the past from the mouth of a good man to the gob of this madman. And what about his sister? How was she on Moriarty's radar?

"What about her?" he asked, trying to keep the terror out of his voice.

Moriarty made an irritated sound at the back of his throat and turned to look at him, his expression that of a teacher about to scold one of his dimwitted pupils.

"Duh. She's the one who informed Sherlock, Do try to follow, pet. Really, what Sherlock sees in you, I'll never know," he shook his head sadly then brightened up again. "Ah, he's finally off. I knew this would do the trick."

"You broke me out of Nightvale just to lure Sherlock out of Baker Street?" John asked incredulously.

"You've seen him. He was stuck. Besides, I like kicking the anthill to watch all of them run around in a panic."

"You're sick," John spat.

"Well, you're the doctor. You'd know," Moriarty said, leaning over him and breathing down his neck.

Creepy, creepy, creepy. Material for future nightmares just kept on piling up. John managed to get the toe of his right slipper to scrape the floor and push his wheelie chair just far enough from the other man that he felt he could breath again, and if Moriarty only chuckled mockingly at his efforts, John could live with that.

Cameras followed Sherlock around, and Sherlock, in turn, was being followed. Mycroft's men, according to Moriarty, and John was kind of okay with that if it meant there was someone to look over him and make sure he didn't do anything stupid while he was unavailable to do it himself. His relief didn't last long though, because of course Sherlock noticed his tail and manage to lose them, and Moriarty by the same occasion.

"But we all know where he'll pop up again, don't we, pet?"

"Nightvale?" John ventured.

Sherlock would try to pick up his trail. It was a lost cause, but it's the sort of thing he would do.

"Good," Moriarty drawled out, patting his head. "You can be trained. Maybe I'll keep you."

"What's the alternative?" John asked flatly.

"Well, I am missing a verse," came the reply with a push of his chair back towards the screens where Moriarty sat on his lap again while they watched the news and Scotland Yard, until Moriarty pointed triumphantly at the third screen. "And there is our dear Sherlock again! Isn't this exciting!"

The images were from inside the hospital, showing Sherlock and Greg arguing in the large room, from a security camera judging by the quality. John really shouldn't be surprised, but if he ever got away from this, he'd be even more wary than he'd been before of cameras, knowing that it wasn't just Mycroft behind that lens, but Moriarty too.. And then, John noticed a large nurse lurking near his two friends.

"Is that… Seb? What… Why?"

"Think!" Moriarty ordered, flicking his fingers at John's forehead.

John was getting quite fed up with being poked, prodded and pushed around by the madman, but, being duct-taped to a piece of furniture there was little he could do about it. He could imagine a whole array of things he'd like to do to the bastard once he got out of the chair though. Moriarty sighed at his lack of response, impatience radiating off him in waves.

"You sent him back…" John stalled, because that much was obvious. "To hack into the security footage?"

"WRONG!" Moriarty boomed, making him wince. "I can do that from here. You have two more guesses and then I use you as target practice for my knife-throwing. Just so you know," he stage-whispered, jumping off his lap once more. "I'm not all that good."

The madman laughed at his own joke, but the knife-throwing wasn't part of it apparently, because he had an honest to God butterfly knife in his hand and was playing with it the way John had only ever seen done on the telly. It was hypnotising, but also a waste of time, so he turned his eyes back to the screen, trying to figure out why Seb was back at the hospital.

"He's erasing evidence of my escape so Sherlock won't find me?"

"WRONG!" Moriarty cackled and took a paces back, positioning himself to throw his bloody knife.

What was he missing? Seb had snatched him away suddenly… because he was talking to Greg? Had he been about to give the game away? Maybe Greg would have believed him. But why return? So they wouldn't know John had help escaping? John eyed Moriarty who had an arm raised and was taking aim.

"Hurry up, pet. Tic-toc, tic-toc."

If he was wrong, he would be stabbed. Moriarty, whether he had good aim or not, would probably put it right through him out of principle, and John had no doubt he'd let him bleed out too... He'd be the fourth victim, just as planned. Which is when he had an idea so ludicrous, John felt it had to be the answer.

"The message!" he exclaimed. "Seb went back to put the message! 'And so are you'. He didn't have-"

...time, he wanted to say but the word stuck to his tongue when Moriarty flicked his wrist, sending the knife flying at him. John had no time to brace himself, only felt the burn and sting of cut flesh to his right arm before the blade clattered to the floor.

"Oops, my bad," Moriarty said, sauntering forward to pick up his blade and wiping it on the hem of John's hospital dressing gown. "I didn't expect you to get it right. Let's see how this goes, shall we?"

Just as he said the words, Greg addressed Seb who smiled amiably and led him down the corridor. They disappeared from view but the screen then switched to a first person point of view walking down a similar corridor. A door opened and the camera turned to show both Greg and Sherlock.

"This was his room. No one's touched it except your team, inspector" came Seb's voice through the speakers, startling John since he'd gotten so used to receiving images only.

"You won't find anything here Sherlock," Greg said, sounding like he'd been over it several time already, which he probably had. Knowing Sherlock, he'd bullied his way onto the crime scene given Greg hadn't called him in. "Anderson has already gone through it with a comb."

"Anderson," Sherlock scoffed, not needing to expand on the subject to make his meaning clear. "There has to be something."

Sherlock started inspecting everything, not that there was a lot to inspect, until his gaze settled on the barred window. Moriarty whooped but John could see nothing there. Sherlock stalked over to said window and inspected it with his pocket magnifying glass, then snorted and blew on the glass pane so it fogged over, letting a message appear. Greg cursed and bellowed into the corridor for Anderson.

"What does it say?" he then asked Sherlock, standing at his shoulder.

"'And so are you,' as expected," he said fogging up the message to show Greg. "A simple soap-based solution. See, this proves John is innocent"

"I think you're missing a bit," Greg said pointing at the disappearing peak of a curve under the phrase.

Sherlock bent over lower to blow over it, then recoiled as his own name appeared.

Silence reigned in the room for a moment before Sherlock spoke again.

"I… don't understand," he confessed.

"Well, that's a first," came Anderson's snide voice before he appeared in the frame, looking at the window and ranting about childish tricks. Greg pulled Sherlock away and out of the small overcrowded room, the camera pivoting around to follow them, but keeping at a distance.

"I think the meaning is clear, Sherlock. That was a threat if I ever saw one. I'll have to put you under police protection.

"It's not John," Sherlock said. "I know it isn't."

Greg's answer was lost to Moriarty's mocking words as he clowned Sherlock's reaction.

"Round two!" Moriarty announced, spinning his chair again so he couldn't see the screens anymore . "Same rules. What will Sherlock do next?"

John scowled, because if the rules stayed the same, he was going to get stabbed whether he answered right or not.

"Run off somewhere," he muttered anyway, because whatever the situation, Sherlock always ran off, usually without saying why or where, but John always followed..

"Well, you're not wrong," Moriarty answered, cocking his head at the screen behind John. "But anyone could have guessed that much. Try again."

John sighed, then frantically racked his brain for an answer when Moriarty took up his previous position, ready to throw his knife once more. The sick bastard kept smiling. For someone who didn't like to get his hands dirty, he sure was getting a kick out of this. Damnit, what would Sherlock do? Run off to where? He had no bloody idea. To whom? Not his brother, apparently, but Sherlock didn't have friends either. Molly? No. What could she possibly do to help him if there wasn't a corpse involved. To his mind palace? Baker Street, then? But he'd risk being trapped there by everyone wanting to protect him.

"Tic-toc, tic-toc! One last chance."

John grimaced, closing his eyes to focus. Where would Sherlock go to be alone and not found, yet still get the help he needed? Oh! His homeless network! But… there was no way he was telling Moriarty about that if there was even the slightest chance he didn't know about it. It would be like betraying Sherlock.

"I don't know," he muttered through gritted teeth, closing his eyes as he braced himself for the blade this time, but it didn't come.

John didn't want to open his eyes, certain the psychopath would throw the knife as soon as he did, but he did anyway when the other man whispered gleefully in his ear.

"You're lying."

John jerked his head aside. He hadn't even heard Moriarty move around the room. He couldn't escape him though and the knife was dancing across his exposed neck so he was careful to remain very, very still.

"Where is Sherlock going, pet?"

"How would I know?"

The sharp pain and burn across his clavicle told him Moriarty couldn't be fooled by lies. Just like Sherlock. Moriarty kept asking the same question, over and over again, and John kept denying or offering diversions, lies, but the cuts kept coming, shallow, not life threatening, although… there was only so much blood he could lose. John would have laughed at the irony that he really didn't know the answer, that all he had was a hunch, and that maybe Moriarty did know about Sherlock's homeless network. He seemed to know everything else, after all, and he could just follow Sherlock to where he'd ran off to with his damned cameras, so why was he so intent on John giving him his answer and for that matter, why was he so intent himself on hanging on to this tiny piece of information?

His last thought was that he'd never know. He'd just die there on that stupid wheelie chair from blood loss, cut to ribbons by a madman.

ooo

John woke up in a bed, which wasn't so bad, except it wasn't his own, or Sherlock's, since he'd taken to sleeping there his last few days at Baker Street. It wasn't even a hospital bed.

"Doc?" a voice asked.

It wasn't Moriarty's so that was a bonus. That face definitely wasn't Moriarty's. John squinted at it until he recognized his nurse. His nurse, the serial killer. A chuckle escaped him, because that was funny and Sherlock would have found it hilarious too.

"Did you hit your head too?" Seb asked with a frown, then began prodding his skull without waiting for an answer.

John swatted the man's huge hands away, grunting a no.

"Water?" John asked, then immediately corrected: "Drug-free water?"

John pushed himself up in the pillows, wincing at all the little cuts that had begun to scab over and the bigger ones which were wrapped in bandages pulling in every direction as he moved. The water he got for his efforts was worth it though, but drinking under Seb's gaze was unnerving. The man sighed as he took the empty glass from him and set it aside while John fell back with a groan.

"I can't believe you managed to provoke the boss this badly. He left you for dead and I was only gone a couple of hours."

"Yeah, sure. I provoked him," John muttered.

"You must have," Seb snapped. "If he'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead already. I wouldn't have bothered staging your escape."

John mentally berated himself for forgetting even for an instant that this man was the Valentine killer and seeing the things he'd done, it might be a good idea not to piss him off either. Stuck between a rock and a hard place indeed.

"How are you feeling?" Seb asked, his voice softer.

"Still in nurse mode?" John asked, noticing he was still wearing his fake nurse garb, then immediately regretting his snark. Serial killer, remember?

Seb looked down at himself and let out a snort.

"Been a bit busy since I returned," he pointed out with a nod at his bandages.

John touched the one on his forearm. He hadn't realized Seb had been the one to patch him up, but who else would after all? It was good work for a fake nurse.

"Thanks," John muttered.

"You don't remember me at all, do you, Doc?" Seb asked out of the blue when the silence had stretched, long and uncomfortable, between them.

"From Nightvale?"

"No, before that."

He paused but John had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He didn't look familiar at all, and he stood out quite a bit, what with his height and all his muscles, so he would have remembered him from a case with Sherlock or during his locum work as a doctor. Seb would look right at home in the army though, but likewise, John couldn't recall him there during one of his tours, so he probably wasn't on site with him, which didn't mean they hadn't crossed paths…

"Sorry, no."

Seb hummed, then dragged a chair next to the bed.

"I was a sniper in the army. Damn good one too, never missed. Alright, almost never," he amended at John's pointed cough because no one was infallible. No one. "But I was getting to that: I did miss once. The building I'd nested on collapsed… I'm not sure why, it had looked structurally sound when I climbed up, but it fell apart just as I pulled the trigger." Seb paused, taking a deep breath. "My shot went wide, hitting a gas tank instead of my target. When I was dug out of the building, I had a nice Doc to patch me up good and proper."

"Oh," John said. "That'll be me, then."

Oh, the irony. Save a guy only to have him frame you for murder by killing your former bullies. How… gratifying.

"The boss is right: you really do telegraph all your thoughts on your face. I'm sorry we had to meet this way again. I really am. But a job is a job. It's nothing personal."

"So if Moriarty asked you to kill me like those others?"

Seb's face tensed for only a fraction of a second, but John saw it and filed it away. He'd have to keep in mind his chances of survival were marginally better with Seb than Moriarty.

"Like I said, nothing personal."

"You did patch me up though."

"I owed you. Besides, I'm sure the boss didn't really mean to kill you. He gets carried away sometimes."

Seb was silent after that, or rather, brooding, and John was afraid he'd suddenly snap and get all Valentine murdery.

"Why did you leave the army?" John asked to get him talking. He was fairly certain you had to keep your captors talking, so they sympathized with you and hesitate before shooting you in the face.

"I didn't leave, I was kicked out. Dishonorable discharge."

Ah. Wrong topic, then. Should have asked him if he liked kicking puppies instead.

"That gas tank I shot, it hit several of my men and civilians we were evacuating."

"But it was an accident," John protested despite himself. "Surely digging you out of a building was proof enough?"

"They needed someone to take the blame. My bullet, my responsibility. It was easy enough to use me as the scapegoat with such proof." Seb shrugged, but he clearly wasn't as nonchalant about that memory as he tried to make it out, his anger still strong enough that John could see the way it hardened his face. "Jim took me in after that, the way Sherlock Holmes took you in. Men like us, we need direction, or we lose ourselves."

John wanted to protest that they were nothing alike, but the other man's words rang true. Before meeting Sherlock, he'd been adrift, desperate for some purpose, anything… What if, like Seb, he'd met Moriarty instead of Sherlock? John shook his head, unwilling to even consider such a path, if only because he had morals.

You shot a cabbie, his mind reminded him. A civilian. Just for Sherlock, who you'd just met. John knew he'd never hear the end of that old argument, but he pushed it away too.

"You understand," Seb said with a nod, seemingly satisfied by his silence, then got up and pushed his chair back to where it was. "Sleep. I told the boss you might not make it, so he'll leave you alone until tomorrow. Don't try to escape. There's no way you'll make it past the first door and I'd hate to shoot you after I went to so much trouble patching you up."

"Gee, thanks. Good night, I guess."

Seb gave him a tight smile and closed the door. Locked the door, John corrected after hearing the bolt slide in. He might be able to pick it, but he had neither strength nor time and most importantly, he had no doubt Seb would shoot him.