A/N: Welcome back readers! I'm pleased to present chapter three of FIPN. Thank you to he or she who reviewed my last chapter; your feedback made me feel all the warm and fuzzies. I would like to warn you all that this chapter is where I deviate from the first season. It is also where creepy/violent Moriarty comes into play. If any of this upsets you you may want to turn back now. Otherwise, positive feedback and constructive criticisms continue to be loved. Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy chapter three!

Time seemed to lose its' fluidity; it became great, broken chunks of meaning floating through the space that John Watson occupied. Moments that were happening, those which had already happened, and those yet to have happened... Increasingly, John had difficulty dissecting his days, a habit he'd relied on to keep track of his thoughts. What John felt to be the most curious about their arrangement was how…comfortable it felt. He had all the privacy in the world and yet he was certain that Sherlock had more than once gone through his belongings. John could smell the man in his things, whiffs of the detective puffing up from drawers of shirts John had only just put away.

To be fair, Sherlock had waited nearly three weeks before invading his personal space. John had only waited a full forty-eight hours. He wondered if Holmes had retaliated by going through John's drawers… It did not seem like something you openly asked your roommate.

Boredom eventually pushed John to seek out employment. From a logical and financial point of view finding a job, something steady and consistent, made perfect sense. Sherlock's cases were erratic at best and payment for said cases even less so. His additional need for easily accessible money (his tea was not something he would ever be willing to sacrifice) and the desire to find something useful to do with his free time were also influential factors.

Despite the glowing reviews littered throughout his military career, John found it difficult to find more than an interview at most of the local hospitals. He discovered this was due to the lapse in his practicing license, something he'd been unaware of until this second interview. Eventually John managed to find a combination of loopholes and a free clinic desperate for help and, three days after beginning his job search, he had found employment.

The first couple of shifts were awkward. John's bedside manner was appalling to say the least, and it was obvious that he was long out of practice. It did not take long for the doctor to slip back into a more pleasant persona and before long he was the most popular doctor at the clinic. Shifting into smiles and placating nods, John found himself approaching a comfortable level of contentment. Time soon shifted to become something wholly unpredictable. There were the moments of quiet when John had the flat to himself, and then there were the moments of inexplicably perfect adrenaline fueling cases. All priorities would shift entirely to suit Holmes' needs and though, in most cases, John had no problem with this, he would not be denied the occasional romantic interlude with the occasional beautiful woman. Sarah had lasted longer than the first two, both of whom had turned tail and bolted for the hills when they had seen Sherlock with his infernal skull. The first time John was certain Sherlock had not heard their somewhat quiet approach up the stairs. The second time the git had been laying in wait and had burst forth just as John had been escorting her upstairs. The skull had been bad enough but both arms coated in blood from the wrist down with spatters and gobs of dried blood streaked on his shirt and face?

John had, quite justifiably, refused to speak to the detective for nearly a week over the second one.

But poor Sarah; John did not blame her for refusing to speak at work and John found himself grateful to still have a job. After all, not many people are so understanding after being kidnapped and nearly impaled by a giant spear.

Despite this aspect of his new life, the one that seemed to dictate that he was not allowed to date, John fell easily into their rhythm. Sherlock came and went but mostly the man was there. Frequently experimenting, sometimes complaining, Sherlock seemed to fill the room wherever he was. From the beginning they just...fit. John felt as though he had finally met someone capable of understanding him. Someone he, in turn, understood. John continued to wonder how much Sherlock could really see of him, but he ignored these lingering doubts when Sherlock gave him a look that clearly insinuated that John was a nematode. Still, somehow, they fit. And there was something so easy about fitting.

And if John awoke, twisted up in sweat-dampened sheets, ruined pants clinging to his legs, fingers reaching for the tangled mat of curls his half-asleep body still ached for, well... At least his wayward thoughts were not manifesting themselves during his waking moments. Clearly he was having an adverse reaction to his first real friendship.

Regardless of how curiously John seemed to be responding to Sherlock's presence, he found that the man in question seemed to have been influenced as well. He began to slow down. Not completely, of course. Not even more than a pinch. But it was noticeable to the good doctor and everyone else, particularly Inspector Lestrade. Greg was, in fact, so impressed that he had invited John out for drinks after Sherlock had offered some incite on something far below his level of intelligence after John had wheedled him into it. Though he had yet to take the Inspector up on his offer, he knew he would, and soon. Not only did he wish for some incite on Sherlock but he needed to work Lestrade's looming heart issues into the conversation. So long as medication and regular exercise were added to his regime, he would be more than fine.

Shortly after coming to terms with the fact that his lodging appeared permanent, John began exploring possibilities. If he were to be around Sherlock he would have to fix his eyes. Blindness was in the books for Sherlock's future and John would be damned if he let that happen. Experimenting of his own had to be done carefully, quietly so as not to arouse the brilliant man to what he was doing.

His every movement was analyzed and broken down in about a hundred ways just existing around Sherlock and so hiding himself became top priority. Not because he was afraid things would change because that was absurd. No, John was worried because of his past. His research.

His past, and therefore his research, was well hidden; he doubted even Mycroft could penetrate the seals placed on his work. Everything beyond the bare bones of his time at Oxford and in the military was hidden beneath miles upon miles of government issued red tape a mile thick. It was all about a gentle touch. If John just so happened to fix the permanent ache is Mrs. Hudson's back and remedied the occasional night terror Sherlock suffered from (a form so mild that John had wondered for a while if he was right) well, he was a doctor and nature always took its' course. Fixing Sherlock's vision not only threatened his current pleasant identity, it broke his resolve. It broke every promise, every self-inflicted restriction he had long ago placed on himself. Yet somehow, this seemed right. Breaking his vow for the man who had given him the first breath of freedom since leaving the military. No, since graduating medical school. It, too, seemed to fit.

For the first time in forever, John felt... Like he was in the right place. His emotions were difficult to pin down (he could tell that the couple who had just passed him were pregnant and that the man would have a severe allergic reaction when he went home to the new feline addition to the new house but not whether or not he himself was happy), and if he were honest, he wasn't sure he cared.

Making his way back from the store after a particularly long shift, John finally landed on contentment. He was content. Considering, he found himself contemplating as he shifted the groceries against his hip to free up his left hand, that he had spent the greater part of this past year idly considering suicide or arson, "contentment" seemed a step in the right direction. John shuffled first through the door to the building then up the stairs and into the apartment proper, groceries still balanced against his hip.

"John." He nearly dropped everything as he stepped inside. Sherlock had been gone for a little over a week this time and it seemed the man had returned just as suddenly as he had left. "Where have you been and why the hell did you leave your phone at the flat?"

"Oh hello, Sherlock. Wonderful to see you again. Have a nice trip, see anything fun, solve any cases whilst you were out and about?" John spoke as he stepped around the glowering detective, making his way to the kitchen (which was currently 85% free of nameless, smoking experiments) where he proceeded to dump the groceries on the counter. Still speaking to himself, John simultaneously started putting things away in the fridge purposefully ignoring the clear Mason jar filled with what appeared to be rancid cottage cheese and blood.

"Why yes I HAVE been quite busy putting things away and picking up the flat and cleaning the living daylights out of the darkest corners here, how KIND of you to notice!" Pointedly he was ignoring the agitated detective, speaking loudly as he moved about the small kitchen. In part, yes, John was irritated. It had taken days to not only make sense of the mess in the kitchen alone, but to organize the flat into something functional and habitable. Clearly his hard work was superfluous to his apparent roommate. However, even more than this, John was finding himself suddenly filled with an anxious, nervous, terribly excited energy. If Sherlock was not only back but also frustrated by his inability to reach John it had to mean they had a case, right? By running around the flat's kitchen he was simultaneously putting away the groceries and relieving himself of his frenetic energy without appearing too terribly affected by the detective's return.

To say that he had missed the man would have seemed too sentimental; the doctor was simply excited for his patient's return.

"Your CELL phone, John. Why have it if you can't be bothered to carry it on you?" John was forced to hide his smile as the equally agitated detective (who seemed to be battling a migraine caused in part to a severe allergic reaction, probably to the cottage cheese concoction in the fridge, nicotine withdrawal, and a lack of sleep) pushed past him to stand at the opposite side of the kitchen table. John now busied himself making tea, delighted for the opportunity to try his newest attempt to create a true medicinal herbal tea. The complexity of crafting a delicate brew which was both pleasing to the palate and contained various medically sound properties was a recent fascination for the doctor and Sherlock's migraine seemed the perfect test.

"John when I ask a question I do expect some sort of response." Sherlock's silent approach surprised John and the tea nearly suffered for it as he jumped involuntarily, rattling the cups and jolting the kettle nearly off the burner entirely. He turned, cheeks ruddy and heart pounding from the sudden influx of adrenaline only to find his cheeks flushing and heart racing for an altogether different reason. Sherlock had somehow managed to round the table and was now standing so close to John that the latter could feel the extreme heat radiating from the former. He frowned; though the detective usually ran hot (could also eat just about anything and gain little to no weight thanks to a hyperactive metabolism), he seemed hotter than usual, feverish even. John now saw the fever and flu baking beneath the migraine and silently cursed. How had he missed something like that? Sherlock, however, continued to loom over him, arms crossed and eyes unnaturally bright, and John remembered that he'd just been asked a question. Doing his best to make his actions appear natural, John once again turned his back to the detective. The butterflies could only be a lingering effect from the sudden surprise, and had nothing to do with how close the man was to him.

"Yes yes, I heard you. It was dead this morning and I must have left it here charging when I left." His hands flew in front if him as he adjusted the tea in Sherlock's cup.

"I still don't see why you are...working, John."

"Well Sherlock, despite the fact that the rest of the world believes I am your housewife, I am actually a productive member of society. It is expected of me, should I wish to retain my dignity. I'm also," He paused, swallowing back the word "lonely" and settled for another one. "Bored. It's boring here during most days." The water was perfect and the adjusted tea was ready in Sherlock's favorite mug. John had been quite amused to find that Sherlock would ingest almost anything if it were presented in said mug. John poured their water into each separately measured cup and was rewarded almost instantly with the smell of peppermint and rose.

"That smells...pleasant. What is it?" Right behind him; Sherlock was leaning over his shoulder and his face was level with John's.

"Err, a rose mint blend by-"

"Hummmm..." John froze; Sherlock had flopped over even further and now his face had settled in the crook of John's neck, on his right side. A hefty portion of the taller man's weight now rested on John and John was quite at a loss as to what to do. The heat radiating from the detective was overwhelming and though the doctor knew the man was clearly suffering from the onset of the flu, John found himself guiltily enjoying the close proximity. The butterflies were exploding in his belly and his throat was so constricted he was now finding it difficult to swallow. His skin was tingling and it was all he could do to keep from wriggling beneath the sudden weight.

"Err, Sherlock. You uh, feeling alright?" Nothing; his words were most certainly not breathy.

"Sherlock...?" A bit louder and still no response beyond the calm, consistent breathing against his neck. Not the first time Sherlock had invaded his personal space, perhaps, but certainly it was the first time that there did not appear to be an ulterior motive. He just seemed... Tired.

"Sherlock...did you fall asleep?" Yup, he had fallen asleep. The tea would take a moment to steep and this was a rare opportunity to study the often amped up detective. Bags under his eyes suggested both insomnia and enough vitamin deficiencies to make John's head spin. His skin was beyond pale and John knew that if he were to open Sherlock's eyes he would see the further degeneration. Not yet bad enough to cause the detective any alarm, though likely another root cause to the increasing frequency to his headaches. Though John seriously doubted if Sherlock would pay attention to anything less than an amputated limb.

Before he knew what he was doing, before a rational thought could float to the surface, John's left hand had floated free from the counter and was reaching for Sherlock over his shoulder. John's breathing was stilted, tiny gasps catching in his throat, and he knew there was no scientific inquiry here but he seemed incapable of stopping himself and good lord the curls were real and softer than they had any right to be. His heart was in his throat and his hands were still lightly gripping the detective's hair and yes his hand was sliding down towards his cheek and under his chin and yes he was slowly lifting the man's head moving so slowly he wasn't even sure he was doing and no he most definitely was not leaning over towards the man's upturned face and his eyes were not half-lidded and-

"John. Is that my phone?" Just as shocking as Sherlock's arrival had been, his voice, groggy and vibrating against John's hand as he spoke. John froze, unable to rip his gaze from Sherlock's mouth and that little crease between his eyes. Still, he gently lowered the consulting detective until his face once more rested against his shoulder. John was unable to hide his shiver and attempted to cover this with a violent clearing of his throat. The phone was, in fact, ringing from somewhere within the folds of Sherlock's coat, loud enough for John to wonder how he'd missed it. Without moving the detective began digging for it and, seconds after looking, immediately passed it to John. Still feeling vaguely shell shocked, the doctor gestured to the still steaming cup of tea on the counter before unlocking the phone and bringing it to his ear. He wondered if Sherlock could feel his flush. He wondered when the man would make some untoward comment, some horrifyingly embarrassing thing that would make him wish he could disappear. He wondered if he'd been aware of what John had been doing before the phone had started ringing. He wondered why he wasn't saying ANYTHING, damn it.

"Sherlock's phone, John speaking." Sherlock was now maneuvering himself, still draped not uncomfortably over John's shoulder in some seemingly impossible position, to politely sip his tea.

Silence on the other end. And then, "John. Give the phone to Sherlock. Please. Before you ask, I have some delicate information to discuss with him which I, unfortunately, cannot discuss with you."

"Lovely to hear from you, Mycroft. I do hope you are feeling better; that was quite a flu going around, wasn't it? Just a moment." It took nearly everything he had to keep his voice under check; Sherlock's proximity combined with the voice of a man whom John would rather not ever hear from were producing some conflicting things. Though not outwardly hostile, the relationship between John and Mycroft was hesitant at best and John preferred not to deal with the man whenever possible. He wondered often if he had discussed John's strangely spotless record with Sherlock or not. John covered the mouthpiece and tilted his head from where Sherlock was still hanging, half-empty cup dangling dangerously from his right hand.

"Sherlock."

"Tell Mycroft," A tiny hidden smirk at Sherlock's emphasis on his brother's name. "That I am deathly ill. Terribly, horrendously ill. Dying, even. Therefore there is no possible way I can do anything for him." He stood, swaying in a way that was entirely theatrical, and sashayed/limped his way to the couch. With just as much flourish as he was theatrical, he flopped to the couch, still holding his cup aloft. John's former belief of a case drawing Sherlock back seemed unfounded with Sherlock's lackadaisical efforts to move. With an exasperated sigh, John brought the phone back to his ear.

"Don't bother lying for him, Doctor Watson. Just tell him I will be there momentarily." The line went dead before John could respond. He found himself rolling his eyes to the ceiling and counting back from ten.

"Sherlock, Mycroft will be here in-"

"Less than six minutes if traffic is good... Do you think you could make me look as though I am on death's door in that span of time?" John was certain that his eyes were going to roll free from his head. Vaguely he wondered if he ought to bring up what had just occurred in the kitchen. Sherlock seemed unaffected; it was unlikely then that he had even noticed. Shelving this, John inhaled deeply before continuing.

"Sherlock, what does he want?"

"What makes you think I have any idea what the git wants?"

"Because you always know what he wants."

"That is absolutely not the case. I'm just good at guessing when he wants specific things." John snorted.

"You do not guess, Sherlock, now what does he want?" Sherlock sighed, the sound of a genius dealing with an idiot, but said nothing more. John, recognizing that Sherlock was slipping into one of his moods, made his way from the kitchen and into the living room where he settled into the easy chair adjacent the couch. Where Sherlock had indeed curled up, facing the back of said couch.

"Sherlock, come on, you could at least prepare me for whatever he's going to bring in here." Another heavy, dramatic sigh as the detective twisted around until he was laying on his back, legs dangling off the end of the couch.

"What he wants is of no consequence. Investigate a death, a boring, boring, BORING death. Silly politics and a pointless request." John simply nodded, leaning back in the chair and lifting his laptop as he awaited the inevitable knock on the door.

The knock, surprisingly, did not come. Hours passed with Sherlock dozing on the couch and John putting the finishing touches on his blog, something he'd found himself invested in after their caseload began to garner attention. There was no call and just as John was beginning to feel the tendrils of sleep tugging at his eyes, his nose flared. Drooping eyes flashed open and pure adrenaline flooded his system. He nearly leapt from the chair, heart racing as he grabbed for Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock, get up, now." His voice was low, strained as he pulled Sherlock up. "We need to leave now, RIGHT now, get UP Sherlock!"

"John, what-"

"NOW! SHERLOCK! GET UP!" John had enough time to be thankful that Mrs. Hudson was out visiting as he dragged a now conscious but still confused Sherlock from the building.

Just in time to avoid the explosion that rocked the street.

OoOoOoO

It took the police and fire department the greater part of the early evening and following day to track the source of the explosion; an apparent natural gas leak in the building across the way. They had gotten off lucky; the damage was minimal. A shattered window, some scratched up glass and a smell which would forever set John's nerves on edge. Honestly, John felt a little silly after for his violent reaction but, considering that he'd had no idea where the natural gas was emanating from, he allowed himself this mistake.

Things were, however, quite disrupted by the destruction on the street; not only was the fire department out in extraordinary numbers, the police department had honed in on Sherlock and was questioning the duo relentlessly. Their stupidity was shocking and by the time Lestrade had intervened Sherlock had left the building and was on the phone with his brother. John caught up with him after a few words with Lestrade; it did not take long for him to round on John.

"How did you know?"

"Know what? The explosion?" He was distracted, trying to figure out a way to recommend that Sherlock take some ibuprofen to aide the headache John knew was coming for them both and so did not hear the accusatory tone in the man's voice.

"YES, John, the EXPLOSION." John's eyes narrowed.

"I have a sensitive nose, Sherlock. I could smell it, the gas I mean."

"It was across the street; nobody can smell something from that far away. It's physically impossible."

"Oh, sure, it's impossible because me setting up an explosion is far more PLAUSIBLE, am I right Sherlock?" The implication was not missed and John was suddenly seeing red. Without another word the doctor stalked off, heading in the opposite direction from the foul tempered detective. Fury could not even come close to what he felt at being accused of blowing up that stupid building. How the hell would SHERLOCK know what HE was capable of? Oh, of course, John was JUST like everyone else and was the exact opposite of UNIQUE. Somehow he knew that to be as angry as he was at that moment was stupid and childish yet… John could not move past the indignant hurt he felt when remembering the accusative tone.

Underneath it all John knew he needed to calm down just…calm…down. Physically he was as alone as he felt mentally and before long his feet took him to a place he had not been for quite some time.

He sat and he did not move from the bench he had once thought of as his bench for some time. People around him came and went, surges of life in all different formats, living and breathing and moving, all coalescing and combining into a symphony greater than anything Mozart had ever crafted. The doctor could find comfort here, forgotten and ignored amidst the irregular ebb and flow of the busy park paths.

Until his phone buzzed deep within the folds of his coat, shattering his attempt at inner peace. He couldn't even remember grabbing the infernal device. Hours had passed and the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky. Frowning, he removed the offensive device to see he had twenty missed calls (all before he had returned to the flat, all from Sherlock) and fifteen missed texts, all but two time stamped before he had returned from work. Thankfully, no new voicemails. The texts, however ran the gambit from first inquisitive then to agitated and then to Sherlock's special brand of anger as he had demanded responses from John. He sighed and opened up the more recent ones. The first contained an address with a brief, 'Be here in fifteen minutes' message. The second was a please.

John inhaled, filling his lungs in a painfully slow way. He exhaled the same way, letting his anger flow out along with his breath. Two more and he was calm enough to stand. The address was familiar and as he began his trek, he realized it was only a block away from where he was. He hoped there might be a fresh pair of clothes wherever he was going.

OoOoOoO

His everything hurt.

Yes, It was a far cry from his typical medical analysis of pain yet it seemed like the only thing that fit. His everything…hurt.

His head ached; his tongue was too thick and he was certain not only that he had a lump on the back of his head but that he had been drugged. His mind refused to race. It was as though his thoughts were blanketed in a thick layer of fog and he was having a difficult time remembering what had happened. He felt neither blindfold nor bag over his head; his latent claustrophobic tendencies told him he was in a room just big enough for him to stretch out. After another moment he realized he was lying on his side; attempting to use his hands to push himself up proved futile. Both arms were pins and needles, bound behind his back. Shifting himself backwards helped him locate a wall, which he used to push and prop himself up. This took far more effort than it should have and his cotton filled head pounded with a steady, dull ache. He found his legs to be bound at the ankles, just as his wrists were bound at the wrist. It felt like heavy twine, thick and itchy with very little give when he flexed his muscles. Breathing heavily he tried to take an inventory of himself, attempting to simultaneously calm himself and figure out if he was seriously injured.

The pain he felt in his head was not isolated there; his entire body hurt. It was, however, the pain of being tied up and shoved into a tiny space. He did not feel like he had been hit anywhere besides the back of his head where the tacky, sticky feel of what could only be blood had dripped down along the back of his neck. His inability to make out anything in what he was dubbing the closet made it difficult to truly orient himself. In the end, presented with all the evidence, he was forced to come to but one conclusion.

He, Doctor John H Watson, had been kidnapped. Again.

Feeling significantly calmer (considering the circumstances), he closed his eyes out of habit and tried to remember.

The text. It had all started with the text. He had thought he'd remembered the location and he had been correct. The address was close to the warehouse Mycroft had originally taken John but far nicer and a few blocks away. It had been, if John were not mistaken, one of many offices. He remembered getting close to the building. He could remember LOOKING at the damn thing, seeing it from the street over.

He could remember feeling like someone was watching him. And then feeling like someone was following him. Pain. He remembered pain and-

"Wakey, wakey, Doctor Watson! Eggs and bakey, time to get up!" The door was flung open and light flooded in, stinging his eyes and momentarily blinding him. Instinctively he turned from the door, attempting to protect himself from whoever was now standing there. When his vision cleared he saw... Jim? Molly's boyfriend? Blinking away his blindness he saw that he was correct. They had met almost a week ago and, if John remembered correctly, had hit on Sherlock by slipping him a phone number. John had felt both insulted and jealous and had placed these emotions away for another time.

"What-?" Pain erupted in his stomach, spittle flying from his mouth as Jim's foot connected with his torso. Before he knew what was happening he was dragged from the closet and into what looked like an office. The sharp scent of chlorine hit him; the smell of people and the image of a public pool came to mind. With more strength than the man should have had, John was hoisted up and flung onto a rolling chair. The man leaned forward immediately, gripping the chair's armrests. He brought his face close to John's, close enough for them to kiss, noses just brushing as Jim's eyes bored down into John's.

"So." He pressed in even closer, the man's eyes now mere inches from his own. "You are John. Hamish. Watson. Hm. I don't believe it. You just look so...boring." It struck John then that this was the man. Weeks prior Sherlock had been tasked by a faceless, nameless individual to save strangers from a set of explosives attached to each person. Cases so cold and so strange that the police had pushed them beyond the darkest corner of lost time and Sherlock, in a brilliant display of…brilliance had solved each and every one within the time frames. Sherlock had been suspicions of the sudden silence of said individual after Sherlock had solved the fifth and final case set before him and now John was starting to believe Sherlock was correct. And he, this Jim, was just. Like. Sherlock. John could feel the blood drain from his face and, for the first time since he had regained consciousness, his mind snapped back into place and he saw what the man was trying to show him. He said nothing, jaw clenched in silence as he watched the mirth slip from the man's gaze. Quick as a lightning strike he pulled back and struck John, breaking his nose and unleashing a torrent of blood, which flowed heavily down his face. John did little more than grunt, head whipping to the side from the force of the strike.

"Prove it, Watson. Tell me who you are. Prove to me that you're actually the one our precious little government spent all their time trying to hide." John prayed the man would not hit him again. If he did not, then John would not have to say anything for the man to find his proof. Already the back of his head was healing, an accelerated rate which, should the man bother checking-

"Let's have a look, shall we?" He fought, but Jim was stronger than a heavily drugged John. John found his head bowed over, and then the man was brushing his fingers through the back of his hair, the touch as delicate as a caress.

"John, may I call you John? John, do you have any idea how long ago I gave you that bump on your head?" He whipped John's head back, hand now tightly gripping the short hairs at the back of still slightly sore head. "Come on, now, you know your own body pretty well! And look, your nose has already stopped bleeding! When. Did. I. Hit. Your. Head?" Each word was emphasized with a not so gentle shake of his head.

"Less than ten minutes ago." He finally acknowledged, realizing that the man had done more than the lion's share of research. Jim pushed back his sleeve, eyes sparkling under the lights as he studied his watch.

"Well done, Johnny boy. It was exactly ten minutes ago that I bashed your head right about in." The man looked as though he had just found the Christmas presents early. "I really have found you. Months of work... And here you are." From some corner he pulled out another rolling chair that he slid in front of John and sat down on. For nearly a full minute, the blood drying uncomfortably on his face, the two just stared at one another. John was tempted to speak up. To say something and get whatever this man intended to do to him over with. But he resisted, breathing calmly and maintaining eye contact. Even this was a difficulty; the man's reason for finding him was as clear as day and almost painful to look at.

"How long have I got, Johnny boy? Hm?" The man reclined in his chair, crossing his ankles on his outstretched leg.

"Less than a year. I would guess eight months, since you've foregone treatment." John licked at his lips, grimacing as the taste of blood flooded his mouth.

"Also correct! Can you tell how big it is? Where it is?" John felt sick. The man's enthusiasm did not bode well for the doctor.

"What do want from me? Did you want to keep playing games all night?" Another blow rocked the doctor's head; the man had crossed the short distance and hit him directly in the eye before John could even begin turning his head.

"I am not a patient man, John. Easily amused? Yes. Patient? Not so much. Answer my questions or I will beat you to a pulp, it's as simple as that." He snickered as he sat back down. "I mean as long as your heart keeps beating you'll keep on healing, right? Or was it your brain…? Now. How big is it. And where is it?" The last blow had cracked his eye socket and belatedly he determined that this man was wearing knuckles.

"Well, Jim,"

"Moriarty. Please, I would prefer if you called me Moriarty. Us not quite being on proper terms you SHOULD call me Mr. Moriarty but… I'll let that slide."

"Moriarty. I would guess that the tumor, lung cancer which metastasized to your brain, is almost four inches around and across, located deep within the temporal lobe. It went undetected for far too long be because you had always had headaches and you thought these were just that, normal headaches. They found the softball completely by accident. Your headaches were no longer responding to medication. That wasn't strange but when you started losing time, waking disoriented on your floor at all hours of the day and night you broke down and went in-" This time the hit struck his stomach, knocking the wind from him.

"I answered your question. Or do you want more of the specifics? Like how you exploded when you saw that dark lump imbedded deep in your brain and destroyed the lab and killed the tech who helped you?" He wheezed, hunched over in his chair as the pain wracked his body. The second blow nearly knocked him from his chair, momentarily dislocating his jaw which he remedied with a quick jerk of his mouth, and John suddenly had an idea.

"Yeah. But now you're just showing off." Moriarty smirked as he returned to his seat. "Questions?"

"I won't bother asking what you want from me, or why me."

"Good!"

"Why Sherlock? Why...all of this? Why the bombs and the cases and all of it?"

"Really?" Moriarty's grin widened as he reclined in his chair. "You must be an idiot savant. Your brilliance does not extend beyond medicine, does it? Poor thing." Silently seething John did little more than grind his teeth, ignoring the familiar itch of bone stitching together present in both his nose and eye socket.

"You see, Johnny, that friend of yours intrigues me. I've been trying to figure out whether or not he sees your abilities, any of your abilities, or whether you are simply so beneath him that he hasn't bothered looking." Moriarty, still smiling crossed his legs and leaned forward, supporting his head in his upturned right hand.

"But let me guess; you thought he was just. Like. You. Aren't you just the cutest thing?" John tried to hide the pain this caused him and succeeded only in dulling his pain into a grimace.

"You haven't answered my questions."

"Oh sure, sure. You see, Johnny boy, despite being an idiot savant, Sherlock seems to consider you much like a small child. He keeps careful tabs on you, him and his brother of course. Both for different reasons, of course. It took some time to send you that little text message and even longer to ensure that you had not been followed. You see, this little game does two things for me. I get to play with Sherlock; figure out what he's made of and what he's capable of." He stood, stretching his arms up Moriarty kicked away his chair and resumed speaking.

"And I finally get ahold of the legend. My salvation, if you will! Granted I couldn't get to the root of your secrecy, hidden beneath all that red tape. Not yet anyway. I have a program running on your files as we speak. But it's not important. To surmise: I am dying, you are going to fix my problem or I am going to kill Harriet, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson…and eventually, after as much pain as I can cause you, you. Hell, maybe I'll go on a spree and blow up a couple buildings, destroy some subways… Make you watch. " John could not contain his mirth and within seconds he was laughing hysterically.

"Do you really think he isn't already on his way? Are you insane or just stupid? Or perhaps that nasty ball of cancer deep inside your brain is putting just the right amount of pressure on the area which controls-" A swift jab to his throat left John gagging and dry heaving in his chair.

"You seem to find something amusing, John. Do you want to explain to the class why the softball, as you put it, is so amusing?" Moriarty lashed out with his foot, overturning the chair John sat on, sending the still gagging man to he floor. The impact snapped his jaws together and John was thankful he had withdrawn his tongue. His idea, his horrible, brilliant idea was working. The man was intelligent, yes, but touchy. Words from someone who for once knew what they were talking about, from someone who knew the true extent of the man's coming demise, pressed his buttons like no physical harm could. If he could push them, all of his buttons, perhaps Moriarty would kill him now. Sherlock would find the man before any real damage could be done to friends or family, John was sure of that.

Because that was all John could do. If the man figured out his research...figured out what he had created. What was now coursing through his body, pumping through his veins as thick and strong as his own blood... Nobody would be safe, least of all himself. John had ceased his research early after his own experimenting had nearly gotten himself killed. He was thankful that none of his later work had been recorded, but if this psycho figured out what he had really been working on... It would not stop at the tumor, nor the healing powers locked within his DNA. He would push. Telekinesis, mind reading, hell, flight; they were reasonable goals for this doctor, should research become his first priority and money no longer an issue. Having left the world of medicine originally for the same reason, John sensed his freedom now being infringed upon and would rather die than be used. Ever.

"Oh no reason. Tell me, have you started vomiting? Has the disorientation really settled in? Have you woken up soaked in vomit and urine, so out of control and confused after a grand mal seizure that all you could do was cry and wish you had someone to hold you-" This time the blows were consistent for nearly two minutes. John felt his ribs crack, felt one of them puncture his lung. It was a grievous injury but not life threatening for him unless the damage was kept consistent. His organs were bruised and John was wondering how much more abuse they would take, and was the bastard wearing steel-toed boots? All the while pain lanced through his body. Each exhalation produced more and more evident flecks of blood. By the time the psycho had stopped John was coughing up globules of the stuff, his breath rattling in his chest as he tried to draw in air. Out of breath and red faced Moriarty leaned down and brought John's face close to his own, gripping John's hair as leverage.

"You think I'm going to push you too far? Hoping for it?" He barked a laugh and dropped John's head less than gently onto the floor. "Keep dreaming, John. Your files may be locked up pretty tight but your military record…not so much. Based off of your records after that nasty bullet wound to your chest you don't die easy. I know just about how much damage you can take, Doctor Watson." There was the distinct sinking feeling in the pit of John's stomach, mind immediately attempting to reroute his previous plan. There were only a few potential paths the next couple of hours could take. None of them looked positive.

"Listen, Moriarty," John gasped, shifting himself to relieve the pressure on his ribs. "There is…literally nothing you can do to make me resume my research. All that red tape protecting my file…even if you get through it, my research won't be there. It was never recorded. I was too careful for that." The man seemed to pause momentarily, considering this as he tapped his foot and pressed a single finger to his lips.

"I suppose that means torture… It's been a long time but-" A loud, persistent beeping floated up from somewhere in Moriarty's pockets. He frowned as he searched for it, clearly irritated at having been interrupted mid-sentence. After a moment he removed what looked like a cell phone and proceeded to poke and prod at the screen. His face lit up and John felt instantaneously sick. That look on this psychopath could mean only one thing.

"We've got COMPANY, Johnny boy! Looks like Sherlock found us a little faster than I thought he would."