A/N: Hello faithful readers and welcome to chapter 4 of FIPN! Thank you for the kind words and constructive assistance of the reviewers. I appreciate each and every one of you; your words encourage me! This chapter gave me the biggest trouble when writing; I had the end planned and then suddenly things changed, as they are wont to do in the world of fiction, and I ended up with something totally different than I had planned. In any case, I hope you all enjoy chapter 4. Thanks again for reading!
A scientifically fascinating but altogether fictional polymorph of water first explored in Vonnegut's "Cat's Cradle", ice-9 explores the possibilities and consequences to life should the melting point of water shift from 0 degrees Celsius to 45.8. Roughly this translates 114.4 degrees F. When accidentally released in the novel via an explosion and some terribly ironic luck, the ice-9 comes into contact with the nearby ocean and in the matter of a few days the majority of life is extinguished. The brilliant and bored young John Watson, fascinated with Vonnegut's tale of dark science fiction early on in his research, inspired and caused a series of firsts.
In the matter of two days, aided by an extremely generous research fund and center, young John came to the shocking discovery that creating DNA mutations (the likes of which science and Vonnegut had only dreamt of) was a possibility. This lead eventually to his one and only instance of human experimentation. As much of an accident as the dark side of this coin, his not so horrific discovery would save his life when down the road he took a bullet to the heart. He often reflected on the humor of his discovery, which he referred to as "RBC-X." The compound was not, in and of itself, humorous. The method with which it had first entered his bloodstream, however, was. Regardless, the introduction of RBC-X to his body had had numerous effects to his physiology including the honing of his baser senses and an accelerated regeneration of both wounds and illnesses. Through a series of somewhat painful experiments he had discovered that his body would react to excessive damage with a greater amount of regeneration. And boy could he see the possibilities.
Simultaneously John had discovered his first mistake and his first, and only, weapon. The concept was much the same as the fictional ice-9. Invasive and utterly malignant, it functioned and operated in the same manner. Blood, however, is something entirely different though both are in essence liquids. Water, for all intents and purposes, is just that: Water. Blood, on the other hand, is comprised of two primary components; various cells (including white and red blood cells and platelets, which help the blood cells clot), and blood plasma, which is what the blood cells float in. Typically, the flow of blood allows oxygen to flow throughout the body. It helps keep the body healthy by clotting at the sites of wounds and removing carbon dioxide as the body produces it. To put it mildly, blood is one of the most essential components in the human body.
Childishly deemed "RBC-2", standing for Red Blood Cell-2, John had in fact created something capable of destroying a fully-grown adult man in less than two hours. Not only was the mortality rate perfect it was also highly contagious. It took only a drop to infect another body. With healthy, functioning red blood cells, oxygen is carried throughout the body to each cell, removing the carbon dioxide as the cells devour the oxygen. When RBC-2 is introduced to the body the red blood cells become necrotic. They cease carrying oxygen and instead become worse than useless. They begin to destroy everything they touch, killing each organ and causing the body to shut down. But what made RBC-2 truly perfect, a unique work of art, was the complete perfection of it. It would first infect a single cell, and then destroy it completely and totally. And then it would spread, doubling, then doubling each doubled cell. It seemed simple, too simple to be so deadly. The larger a creature the longer it took; thankfully John did not have the experiments to prove the rate of degeneration in a human adult but the math was simple enough. Hence the two hour window.
It had not taken John long to discover the true horror of his accidental creation. For the first time since he had been given his grant and free reign to do as he wished, John went straight to his government. After all, considering the level of surveillance he had been placed under, they would have come for him soon enough. It took three rabbits and a cat to prove the danger involved to those who saw the weapon of war in John's discovery of his pathogen and to have his records buried deep and all evidence of his research destroyed. There were exactly six people who knew of Doctor Watson's discovery. Three had served on the board, which had agreed to destroy his work. The other three had worked with him and had, on pain of death, been sworn to secrecy. As far as John had been concerned, his research had become little more than a dark dream.
OoOoOoO
Lying painfully, awkwardly trussed up on the floor, staring up into the calm, delighted face of his kidnapper, John was wondering how much of his research had been destroyed and hidden. And somewhere, wandering purposely, silently through the building was the man who whom John called his flat mate. No, that was wrong. Somewhere was the man he called a friend. And his friend was about to be dragged into a horrid, horrid mess. Before he could redirect his plans, Moriarty had him by his wrist restraints and was hoisting John back up into a sitting position on the floor. A stilted gasp escaped his mouth as his still mending ribs and heart were jolted together; he was already regenerating at an accelerated rate to compensate for the level of abuse. This, in turn, was beginning to exhaust him.
"I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Johnny boy," That sinking feeling in the pit of stomach was filling with static.
"Wait, wait, let me guess-," Moriarty's patience was waning, John discovered, as the man's foot connected with his still healing ribs. Blood flew from John's mouth in a fine spray and the doctor was vaguely delighted that he had ruined the well-dressed psycho's tie.
" I did find an interesting little recipe. Or, rather, I uncovered some hints and found a few interns from your past… See, now, I couldn't quite get everything RIGHT. I mean, I am ridiculously brilliant but your medical expertise far outweighs my own. Hell, it even outweighed your interns! So," He stood, pacing slowly over to a cabinet near the door. John followed him with his eyes, panting involuntarily as pain burned in his chest. He watched as the man rummaged through an unseen bag in the top shelf, humming cheerfully all the while. After a moment he turned, holding what looked like a revolver, a. 22 most likely, held in his left hand and a few bullets in his right. Moriarty sauntered back to the prone John who was doing everything in his power to both stay awake and remain aware. He hadn't even realized he'd begun to drift off until he felt the hand in his hair, jerking his head upright.
"Come now, Doctor Watson! No time for a nap now, the fun has yet to begin." John's gaze was drawn invariably to the gun in Moriarty's hand, watching as he loaded the weapon.
"You didn't. It's not possible." John croaked, shifting against his bonds and sending shooting pain through his chest. Another coughing fit took him; blood flew from his mouth, spattering across the floor. Some dark corner of his mind wondered if the room would look like a disco under a black light by the time Moriarty had finished with him. Cold fingers wrapped across his mouth, squeezing his cheeks against his teeth and undeniably forcing his attention back to the man staring directly into his eyes from only a few inches away.
"Stay with me, Johnny boy," He cooed, his grip loosening and becoming something like a caress, fingers beneath his chin and holding his head aloft.
"This may not be as perfect as your serum; after all, only two of your three technicians died. The other was just horrifically disfigured and crippled for life. But hey, two out of three isn't too terrible for my first try, right?" The blood had fully dried down the front of John's face and it was now terribly itchy and for some reason that was all he seemed capable of focusing on because acknowledging that his interns, each with their families and lives and living completely separate of him, had been killed because of him.
"You know that won't kill me. I mean, I suppose if you use all six bullets…and you put them directly into my brain…or my heart…maybe if you had TRIED a little harder... Oh, but you're not ACCUSTOMED to imperfection, are you... I'm really rubbing my OBVIOUSLY inferior salt in your SUPERIOR wound, aren't I?" He expected more abuse and was not disappointed as Moriarty's fist connected with his still aching belly. More blood and now the world was swimming in front of his eyes. It had been a very long time since his body had been pushed so far in such a short time and not for the first time John wondered if Moriarty were testing him, poking and prodding at his so-called weak points, trying to determine just what they were. He wondered how much Moriarty had been able to glean from what files he had uncovered. He wondered why his government had not done more to protect him, to protect his interns. He wondered how much more of this he could take.
The beeping, which had faded into the background, had returned in the form of a loud, persistent ringing. The device in Jim Moriarty's pocket was going off again and John had the sick feeling that stage two…or three or perhaps six because trying to understand what was going through the madman's mind was like trying to wade through a swap of insanity, was about to begin. And then John heard the one thing he had hoped he would never hear. It was faint, far off and were it not for the slow, devious smile snaking its' way across Moriarty's face he would have believed it to be a hallucination.
"I know you're here!" Sherlock's voice sounded clearer the second time than it should have and in John's roughly drawn diagram of the pool put the office they were in to be perpendicular to the pool. He was only aware that Moriarty had been studying him when the man began to chuckle. The hand that held his chin moved up to his cheek, cupping his face and bringing his gaze and focus back to the current problem at hand. Said current problem was grinning; his opposite hand had left John's hair and was once more gripping the revolver.
"I'm sure you, even with your LIMITED INTELLIGENCE, know where this whole thing is going, hmm?" Something cold brushed against John's left cheek and his eyes fluttered as he silently flinched away from the revolver's barrel.
"But just in case you still don't get it, DOCTOR Watson… You're going to fix my problem. Cure me, as it were! You're going to remove this tumor. You're going to solve my little malignant problem or I'm going to shoot that idiotic "consulting detective" right in the leg. He'll have approximately three hours before he either dies a horrible, painful death or turns into a shriveled lump of human. So, really, it's all you, Doc!" John's nausea had returned full force and he was very much hoping that he might get sick all over Moriarty's fantastic suit. The lunatic had not stopped touching his face and now his eyes were bright with a frightening intensity that caused every retort, every possible argument to die in John's throat.
"You wouldn't; you find him too fascinating."
"Ohhh, that I do, Johnny Boy. I find him simply irresistible! Or I did…until they found that tumor. Until I found you, Doctor Watson. Now, listen, you have an opportunity here. A fantastic one. You can come with me of your own, somewhat free, will. Where I will treat you better than SHERLOCK ever did. I mean, if you have to be someone's pet why not be the pet of someone who knows what you're REALLY capable of?" He smiled and stood suddenly, leaving John's head to droop back down nearly to his chest. John took the brief moment to reflect on the insulating and creepy comment.
"To top it all off, DOCTOR Watson, I'm willing to bet I'm much more exciting and far better in bed than that old stick in the mud." Despite his exhaustion, his pain, John still managed to flush a deep red and raise his head defiantly to the mad man.
"I…am not… GAY, Moriarty." There was humor buried in this conversation and it took everything John had to resist the giggles bubbling up from deep within. The man waved his hand dismissively, pacing absently around the room.
"Semantics, John. Semantics. Regardless, you don't need to give me your answer here." John's eyes narrowed, a snarl suddenly taking over his face as Moriarty strode around behind John and grabbed at the collar of his jacket.
"He's smarter than that, Moriarty, he won't have come alone."
"Of COURSE he came alone, Johnny! The GREAT SHERLOCK has no need for something as unnecessary as back up. Oh! Almost forgot." Moriarty released John and the doctor teetered back and forth before landing harshly on his left side. Before he could right himself Moriarty did it for him, jerking him first up into a sitting position where he shoved a dirty rag into John's mouth, and then to his feet, snarling at John to move his ass until he managed to stand. He gagged twice on the rag, the smell of wood polish and dirt filling his nose and doing nothing good for his nausea. He had only a moment to acknowledge this invasion of his senses before he was shoved through the door Moriarty jerked open. His hands were still bound behind his back and just above where they were resting Moriarty had shoved the revolver's barrel. He did not fear the weapon but feeling it there made it impossible to forget the danger his flat mate, his friend, now faced. Not for the first time, John found himself regretting that he had troubled Sherlock with his life.
His estimated location of the office had been fairly accurate. The door Moriarty shoved him through led to a short hallway. To the right it appeared to go straight for several feet before turning sharply to the left. To the left it moved out towards the undeniable scent of chlorine and the minute sounds of water lapping at the side of a wall. He could hear, too, the light steps of the consulting detective as he entered further into the pool house. The gun was digging painfully into his back, urging him onward. He shuffled forward, eyes flicking this way and that, looking desperately for some way out, some alternative route or option. It wasn't until they were nearly at the poolside, when John could see the pool itself that he threw himself backwards. With every last ounce of energy he fought against the hand at his neck and dismissed the gun jammed into his back and he fought for Sherlock's life. He almost thought he was winning, too, until he felt a shoe against his back and he was flying forward. With a nearly muffled grunt John landed with the grace of a car accident, skidding nearly into the pool itself before he stopped. There was a painful, pregnant silence for what felt like eons before finally John was able to lift his head.
And there he was. Standing there. Frozen. Staring down at him from the opposite end of the pool, tense even beneath his coat, Sherlock had in fact come to find him. And he had, in fact, come alone. It was easy to see from the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed and the way his chest expanded with a sharp intake of breath that he looked even worse than he felt. Moriarty had done a number on him and it hadn't even occurred to him that there might be some physical indication of this.
"John." The detective took a step forward only to be stopped as Moriarty strolled out from the same hallway, holding up his hand and indicating a clear no to the detective.
"Stay right there, Sherlock." He produced the gun or so John was led to believe as Sherlock's forward momentum halted.
"Moriarty, I presume. What do you-,"
"I know this might be HARD for you to BELIEVE, Sherlock. But this actually has very little to do with you. Sure we had some fun, but it's time for some serious grown up talk." John's face twisted behind the gag and despite his inability to speak he screamed at the man to leave. He tried to tell Sherlock to go with every fiber of his physical and verbal being. He knew Sherlock understood; he saw the minute change in his expression, echoed in his actions as Sherlock stood up straight and narrowed his now icy eyes at Moriarty.
"What does this have to do with John, then. Must be pretty important to have bloodied him up so much." Moriarty laughed, the sound reverberating against the walls of the pool house.
"You are ONLY HERE, Sherlock, because I need you…to get what I want…from HIM." He punctuated the end of his sentence with a full-blown kick into John's stomach, nearly sending him into pool with the force of the blow.
"If you touch him again, Moriarty, I will end you. These games have been…fascinating but I will not allow this." Moriarty said nothing and instead yanked John up into a sitting position, holding his head up with a hand in his hair. John could not help the warmth blossoming in his chest; maybe he was just a nematode but he was SHERLOCK'S nematode and somehow this made it all okay. John's vision was swimming, fading in an out leaving Sherlock as the only solid object in his view. He tried to focus on the man, tried to use his image to keep himself awake and aware. Beside him, the sound of the hammer being pulled back and locking into place was as distinct a sound as his own breathing and for the first time since he had awoken in that closet, John Hamish Watson was terrified. Some sane, rational part of his mind tried to tell him that Moriarty had only .22 rounds. That there was nothing special about them and that there was no possible way that he had gotten his hands on any of John's research. If he shot Sherlock the man would bleed but John could fix a bleed.
But those eyes…so bright and dancing with a light as malignant as his tumor. John could no longer struggle against his bonds; he was beyond the point of exhaustion, unable to even attempt an escape at this point.
"How about it, Johnny boy? This is your last chance; if you continue to refuse me I'll end this little game and start a whole new world of destruction. All in your good name." John's reply was muffled behind his gag and with a laugh that suggested he had forgotten John could not speak, the mad man removed the gag and pulled John's head back so that he could meet his gaze, all the while waving the revolver in around in the air.
"I-I can't. I have none of my own records; the level of research I would have to do, the time it would take to do it…you won't-" A sharp jerk of his head silenced him but even from the corner of his eye John could not miss the shift in Sherlock's posture and stance. He may not understand fully what was happening but he would soon.
"Oh come now, Doctor. I'm sure you have your wiley little ways. I won't ask you again; answer me now. Or Sherlock dies. Here. Now." The revolver was pointed unwaveringly at the consulting detective again and now John was left with his only option. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the constant dull ache in his ribs as his breathing began to hitch in his chest, John bit the metaphorical bullet, slumping in defeat under Moriarty's hand.
"Don't kill him. I'll do it."
"John; whatever you've just promised him isn't worth my life." John said nothing as Moriarty made some affirmative noise in his throat, releasing the hammer gently and whisking the offensive weapon from John's sight.
"Well DONE, John, you made the RIGHT choice. Now YOU, Mr. Consulting Detective. You're going to stay. Right. There." As though he had planned every second of this, six laser-guided sights appeared suddenly on Sherlock's body.
"As long as you don't move, you'll be just fine, Sherlock. John and I, however, have somewhere we simply must be right about now. So if you'll EXCUSE us." With that same freakish strength Moriarty yanked John to his feet and keeping John between Sherlock and himself, began back-stepping the way they had emerged.
"Oh, and, Sherlock?" John tried not to cringe as Moriarty's leaned forward, pressing his cheek against John's and smiling. "Don't try to find your little pet. See, I've just bought him with your life making him MY pet. And I don't share, Sherlock. I never share." John's stomach was now turning from more than just the residual taste of the gag in his mouth. The last thing John saw as they turned the corner was his flat-mate, eyes narrowed, hands clenched and teeth bared in a look that was nothing short of feral.
His last thought conscious thought, however, was something along the lines of, "What in the hell have I just done?" There was the prick of a needle, a rush of cold, and John Watson knew no more.