First Impressions and Preconceived Notions

by BrilliantInconvenience

A/U: Medically brilliant, John Watson is estranged from many and when he is honorably discharged from the Army, he is left despondent and alone. Following the initial tract of the re-imagined Sherlock Holmes, this tale takes a turn when it seems that Sherlock is not the man most sought after by the elusive and terrifying James Moriarty. JWxSH

5. Chapter 5

A/N: Welcome, dear readers, to my fifth and final chapter of FIPN! I've worked many a day on this tale and I appreciate, more than you know, that you have read and enjoyed it thus far. I'm toying with ideas for sequels so, assuming I can work out an idea at some point, this may not be the end of this little creation. As strange as it's been, I've found myself somewhat enamored with my creepy little Moriarty. As always constructive criticisms and positive feedback are always loved and I have appreciated your kind words more than you know. So thank you, gentle readers, and please enjoy the final chapter of First Impressions and Preconceived Notions.

Time seemed to be growing consistently inconsistent for the doctor. John remembered leaving the pool. He remembered Sherlock, his face a myriad of fury and vengeance so strong that John was certain he would remember it forever. But for a while he was swimming through darkness; if he focused he thought maybe he felt the sting of a needle, a rush of ice through his veins. He faded in an out, rising and falling from consciousness as though carried effortlessly through a dark, cold stream. He remembered a car. A blind-fold. Voices. Moriarty speaking, screaming, speaking again.

His return to the world of the conscious was not as sudden as it should have been. It was more like slowly wading through a pool of thick cotton; soft and gentle. For nearly two full minutes, John could have been at 221B, waking from a long night of running through the streets of London to hear Sherlock...coming home…

Sherlock…

"Joooohhhhnnnn. Johnny boy, you've been asleep for nearly two days. Time to wake up, dearrrrr." John's eyes snapped open, adrenaline flooding his body causing him to sit upright all at once. Seconds passed while his vision cleared and when he could see once more he discovered that seeing was not necessarily a pleasant thing.

As a matter of fact, John couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He was lying in a bed, of that at least he was certain. The bed was positioned in a corner of a wide, spacious room. The lights remained dim above him but he could see from where he was that they were designed to be bright, glaring works of precision. The ceiling was as high as the room was wide and it made John feel very small. None of this was even close to odd when compared to what took up the majority of the room. Medical equipment. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical equipment lined the walls and filled any voids not taken on the tables. It was almost as though the bed had been a second thought; a realization by a mad man that John would need somewhere to sleep. That urge, the urge he hadn't felt in years and years, began to fill his mind and he found himself chewing just short of painfully on his lower lip. Quite suddenly, all John wanted to do was create. To test and experiment and to discover new things.

As though he'd known, somehow been able to read John's mind, Moriarty morphed in from the shadows, a look somewhere between anger and delight playing across his features.

"Seems the drugs didn't do IRREPERABLE damage to that precious brain of yours, Doctor Watson. Now what about your legs? Stand up, would you?" John's mouth went dry and he glanced at his legs, prone beneath the thin blanket thrown haphazardly over his lower torso. For a terrifying moment he wondered if there were even legs under the blanket. The look of impatience in Moriarty's eyes was growing stronger; John shifted himself up into a sitting position and threw the blankets off his legs as quickly as possible, going for the ripping off the band-aid effect.

Relief immediately flooded his system as he saw both legs fully intact and even clothed; this was greater intensified as he attempted to stand and found that he could. A strange pressure seemed locked around his ankle, something he hadn't noticed until he'd stood, and without thinking he bent over at the waist and tugged at his trouser leg, lifting it to find a device similar to one worn by criminals under house arrest wrapped securely around his calf.

"Ah ah ah, Doctor. Don't touch it. It doesn't like to be touched. Or tampered with. And it ESPECIALLY does not like to be removed. With that I know your whereabouts at all times. It administers an electric shock, the degree of which can be set low or extremely high, should you disobey or attempt to escape." He smiled, head tilted in a look of geniality that John found impossible to reconcile. "Of course, you wouldn't even try something so stupid would you? Not after you bought Sherlock's freedom by coming with me." It took a moment to swallow past the lump in his throat yet all he could manage was a half-hearted nod. He'd nearly forgotten how he'd come to be here and for what purpose he had been abducted. A small, stupid part of him continued to hold out hope that he was just dreaming; caught in a sub-reality where all nightmarish things may easily come to pass. An even tinier, even stupider part of him hoped that Sherlock would find him.

"Now…," Moriarty rubbed his hands together in front of him, a look bordering on insane flashing across his face. "It's about time you fix my little problem, hmm?"

Swallowing past an impossible lump in his throat, John managed another single nod as he brushed past Moriarty into the lab proper. Millions of thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind as his hands alighted on the delicate equipment, trying to ignore the tremble that ran through his very core. To be torn so completely between his urgent desire to create and discover and change and his desire to watch the sociopathic killer wither away under John's own created false hope…it was dizzying.

"Don't even think about it." John stiffened, not bothering to hide his look of disgust as Moriarty invaded his personal space, pressing into his back and murmuring softly in his ear.

"Think about what, exactly?" He shuddered as he felt the man chuckle against him, felt him lay his head against his back.

"About lying to me. I know you're the best; I wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to kidnap you if you weren't. But that doesn't stop me from bringing in my own team. They won't be pestering you, don't worry! They're just going to monitor my progress. Ensure that whatever you give me is actually working. And don't worry… I won't leave you alone for too long. I know you're more comfortable with constant companionship." Inwardly John cursed but he could not say he was surprised. The man was frustratingly brilliant; to expect anything less was to prove to be as stupid as Moriarty said he was. Suddenly the weight of the man was gone and the sound of heels clicking against tile was enough to get John to raise his head and turn around. He would be lying if he said the man's apparent departure wasn't somewhat terrifying; God only knew where he was off to, whose lives he intended to destroy. And that comment… He knew Moriarty was a strange case but the level of "creep" John was now experiencing was above and beyond what he had ever expected.

Sherlock sure as hell never acted so childishly possessive. The constant touching, the invasions of personal space… John's brief stint in the world of psychology was more than enough to see through Moriarty's obsession.

"Now get to work, pet." Without turning Moriarty raised his hand as though waving to John. A door opened on the opposite side of the lab and with little more than a snap of the fingers, John was alone, the door slamming decisively shut behind Moriarty. The sound of a lock slipping into place was just as distinctive as the sound of the door slamming and it did little more than add another weight to the immense load John now felt he was carrying.

Having dispensed with most of his options, Doctor Watson turned to his table and, as Moriarty had so eloquently ordered, got to work.

OoOoOoO

Days passed. John made great strides in dancing around a cure for Moriarty whilst appearing to edge towards said cure. Some time after he had initially been left alone he had been presented with what amounted to a sophisticated walkie-talkie. He was instructed by the plain-faced gentleman in a suit bearing said device that he was to use it to contact Moriarty should he "need" him for anything.

It wasn't until the fourth day that John could put it off no longer. He took a moment for himself, rubbing his eyes and passing his hand over the stubble growing on his cheeks. Sleep was random for the harrowed doctor and it seemed like ages since he'd felt safe enough for a solid eight hours of rest. Pushing back a yawn and giving his cold cup of half-filled coffee a baleful glance, John groped for the two-way radio and called for his captor.

"Find something, Johnny boy?" John's keen eyes did not miss the bags beneath his eyes, nor the twinge at the corner of them. The man was in immense, horrible pain; likely a migraine. The man's gaze seemed unfocused, despite the intensity of his gaze, and the harsh blinking suggested his gaze was fuzzy. His face was pale and the strong scent of mouthwash indicated that he had very recently vomited. In short, Moriarty looked like crap.

"I'm…not sure. I wanted to run an experiment and I am an invalid subject." The psychopath sighed and for a split second John felt a great pity for him; he looked so small standing on the other side of his table beneath the harsh glow of the overhead lights.

"Will it hurt?"

"No, not really. It's just a shot." Moriarty offered something like a sneer in response, lips drawing back to provide a look of disgust and irritation.

"Fine." He did not approach the table and with a sigh, John stood and began preparing the needle he had set aside with a substance that was nearly clear with only the slightest hint of blue, imperceptible for all but John's eyes. Once prepared John made his way to the other side of the table, all too aware of the unwavering hostile gaze from the man he now stood before.

"I'll…I'll need you to kind of…turn your…head." For a moment neither man moved. John simply stood there, hands gloved, syringe ready for use in his left hand. Moriarty, suited and stone-faced, did not tilt his head. Instead he smiled.

"Think wisely before you do whatever you're about to do. You may succeed in killing me but I will, in turn, ensure that every person you care about, every person you've EVER cared about, dies as well."

"Moriarty, you-," John stopped himself, trying to hold in whatever stupid, suicidal thing he had been about to say. He took a moment. Took a breath. And nodded, trying to keep his anger and upset from his face; the man was scared and under any other circumstance John would have tried to assuage said fear. But the man was his captor, his forced patient, and a part of him delighted in knowing that yes, he could stop his heart and watch him breathe his last should he so choose.

Moriarty tilted his head, and closed his eyes. The stiffening of his face, the setting of his shoulders, indicated the man's fear and John could not keep the amusement from his face as he tilted Moriarty's head further to the side. Moving with the gentile grace one usually reserves for children, John injected the serum just below his ear. Seconds later he was finished. He had enough time to step away from Moriarty to watch the change in his facial features, see them soften and see the pain leave his face. Nearly two full minutes passed. John found himself incapable of movement; something between terror and wariness warring in him as he waited for some sort of response. John then found himself bent over the nearest table, Moriarty's hands (surprisingly strong) wrapped around his throat and his windpipe slowly being crushed.

It was not the reaction he had expected.

"What. Did you. Just do. To me." John gasped, clutching at Moriarty's hands on his throat. His head was feeling light within seconds and his vision soon began to fade out. The hands at his throat relented after a moment and soon were removed altogether. John slid to the floor, coughing and choking and trying to reign in his desire to gut the man standing before him.

"It's gone."

"No," John managed. "No, it's NOT gone. What I gave you is a type of painkiller designed to-"

"So it's not gone."

"No. Not yet. Your body is weak, Moriarty. Very, very weak. It's been trying so hard to fight this thing for so long before it finally started to give in. If I hit you too hard with too much all at once…You might not make it." He stood, swaying on his feet before regaining his balance using the nearby lab table as a stabilizer. "I need to do some tests. Determine what your body can handle before creating anything strong enough to destroy the root cause." Silence in the lab while John tried to re-establish his equilibrium as he came down off his adrenaline rush and Moriarty stared unwaveringly at him.

"What was that. What did you inject in me, Johnny boy?" His voice was soft, his smile somehow gentle, terrifying and seductive all at once. The combination of the look with what just happened at John more than on edge.

"If I tell you you're not going to like it." His throat felt raw and he now sounded as tired as he felt. The man sighed, sauntering the short distance to where John stood. John was proud that he did not flinch when Moriarty raised his hand to him but could not help it when his hand settled gently on his cheek.

"Try me."

"Saliva." The word was out before he could even contemplate the consequences.

"…You injected…spit…into my body."

"In a sense," He said carefully.

"Whose saliva did you use?" The look on his face said it all and John knew there was no point in lying to him. He wondered if Moriarty had ever guessed what John was truly capable of before this moment.

"I…took a sample of my own saliva, watered it down and made it safe for your body."

"Why did you inject me?" John blinked, bewilderment evident on his face.

"I just explained-,"

"My headache is coming back, John." John's eyebrow furrowed; that should have lasted far longer than it should have. He mentally redid the math, ran through the calculations for the percentages of saliva versus-

And then Moriarty's tongue was in his mouth and his brain stopped working. Horror, revulsion, disgust; his mind ceased producing synonyms to properly describe what was happening. Without thinking he responded, violently, shoving the man away from him with enough force to throw him to the floor. He was wiping his mouth on his sleeve and trying not to dry heave; the taste of spearmint flavored Scope was lingering in his mouth and he was almost hoping that the laser sights trained on him would deliver his death quickly before he had time to remember what had just happened. On the floor, Moriarty was laughing, loudly, openly, wildly as he stood.

"Headache's just about gone now. And wasn't that less of a hassle?" His words sounded playful but his eyes, bright and shining and so awake, spoke of potential. John remained silent, wondering if the man's vision had cleared up, glaring silently at the maniac as he righted himself, straightening his suit jacket and grinning all the while.

"You should have kept the specifics quiet. I'm sure you're realizing that NOW, but really, John, why wouldn't you just think about that in the first place? I was going to just kill you when you solved my little problem. Now now, don't LOOK at me like that, I WAS going to kill you suggests the thought was in the PAST." He smiled, picking up the nearest thing on the table, which just so happened to be a flask, and swirled the liquid around inside the container.

"I was even thinking about torturing you to death!" He laughed and seemed almost surprised when John did not join in. "Oh come on, it's FUNNY, John! Clearly I've changed my mind. See, because now… Now I'm going to keep you around. It's not just your brain I'm excited over, John. It's your body. Your saliva literally has the ability to remedy a headache; what else are you capable of, hmm?" He had set the flask down in favor of rubbing his hands far too sinisterly together. His eyes focused once more on the doctor and purposefully he raked his gaze across John's body, smirking all the while.

"Pretty and smart with a cute trick up his sleeve… Yes, Sherlock was truly wasting his time with you." His saunter was, thankfully, taking him back to the door he'd entered through. John managed to keep his posture and stance strong and firm until Moriarty was gone. At which point his legs gave out and he slid to the floor, lips parted and eyes hazy. Torture? The psycho was going to TORTURE him to death? He'd believed that the end of his life MIGHT come when he solved the man's problem but…He was planning to TORTURE HIM TO DEATH?

John was no longer feeling so great. His stomach was on edge and his mind was whirring too fast to take any control over. Knowing that he was out of options for the day, knowing that he was no longer going to get anything finished, John metaphorically threw in the towel for the day. John was thinking that "exhaustion" didn't quite cover where he was.

OoOoOoO

"John. I'm going to remove my hand but I need you to remain quiet." He had been awake before Sherlock had even come close to touching him. John had smelled him nearly from the moment he'd entered the room. He had believed that he was hallucinating. Moriarty's moment in the lab earlier was still too fresh in his mind and, at this point, John had been giving up hope of ever seeing the light of day under his own volition. Feeling Sherlock's hand covering his mouth, trying to keep from startling him in the artificial night of the lab, brought about a sense of reality that little else could have achieved. Sherlock's eyes seemed to shine in the dim light and John knew part of his excitement was over finding John and for some strange reason this brought a feeling of warmth to the doctor.

Pushing aside his warm and fuzzy feelings, John managed a single nod, eyes locked on the detective's. Once Sherlock seemed satisfied that John would not leap from his bed and scream, he removed his hand and immediately started poking and prodding down first John's arms, then torso, then down his legs, stopping once he reached the attached monitor at his ankle. The detective's subsequent swear did little to boost John's positivity.

"Goddamn device doesn't even have an easily identifiable split where it should come apart; what the hell is this made of?" He hissed, fingers moving deftly over the device.

"Sherlock it doesn't matter; it's set to electrocute me if removed without the key."

"A minor inconvenience at best, John." John was only just able to stifle his snicker at Sherlock's matter of fact tone.

"I might be able to figure something out with some of my chemicals but I'll need a little time-,"

"I'm HURT, John." The sound of the door had gone unnoticed by both detective and doctor and it was only Moriarty's voice, ringing out amidst their hushed whispers, which alerted them to his presence. John froze, hackles rising and muscles tightening as adrenaline flooded his system in a violent rush.

"To think…after the moment we shared. And now you're trying to ESCAPE. I am just…at a loss, Johnny boy. Not for what to do, you understand, but as to how I should feel." The gun was in his hand and the shot fired before John could even begin to form an argument. Before he could even think to warn Sherlock. He was still sitting on the bed and Sherlock's hand was still on the bracelet and it was only because of this limited contact that John was able to catch the consulting detective before he hit the floor.

"SHERLOCK!" The word was forced free from John's mouth before he could stop them; his eyes, so quick, saw that Sherlock had taken the bullet in his shoulder.

"I'm alright John just hurts like…like…f-fire… It's like...," And then he was gone, caught in a seizure so severe that John could do little more than turn him on his side and tear his sheets, shoving the strip into his mouth in an attempt to keep the man from biting his own tongue off.

"Oops." Moriarty. John's eyes were blazing, fury and sheer hatred directed at the maniac standing just opposite the bed now.

"As you can see…you haven't got much time. Or, should I say, SHERLOCK doesn't have much time." Even in this moment John felt his cheeks grow hot as Moriarty mocked his fear.

"So I'll just say this as succinctly as possible. Plans have changed. Things have come up which were previously not concerns of mine. I am leaving. Now. And I am incapable at this time of taking you or anyone else with me. You are going to fix my little problem. Right here. Right now. If you refuse, I will use the remaining three bullets on that seizing creature you're clutching and I will record the whole thing so I can watch him die over and over and over again. If you fix my problem, and you fix it for good, I will leave and you may attempt whatever you wish on the man to try and save him. I will return for you, eventually, but your consulting detective will be safe." Moriarty pulled back the hammer of the revolver, his smile twisted and genuine in the dim lighting and said nothing else. There was no question, not even a moment of hesitation, in John's mind. He closed his eyes and allowed his synapses to fire towards the solution to the problem and, only thirty seconds after Sherlock had stopped twitching in his grasp, stood. He laid Sherlock as gently as he could on the floor, maneuvering him as quickly and as easily as possible, before turning back to the root of his problem. His mind had produced only one possible solution and it was, in all reality, horrific.

"Blood to blood would be quickest." He said, succinctly summing up what he felt to be his only option. "Based on the percentage of saliva in the previous solution I can estimate by sight how much of my blood you will need. I will withdraw it and you may store it for later use." His eyes flashed. " I warn you against dosing too quickly. With…" He paused, eyes flickering shut for a few seconds. "Three vials you should be set but you will want to take the first two in doses over the period of four days. Now get the fuck out of my way." John did not wait for Moriarty to move; he shoved past the man and moved to the nearest table. Seconds later, his arm still dripping from the needle, he had the vials and was once again brushing past the psychopath, shoving the vials into his hands as he walked.

"Mmm…Still warm." He did not turn, despite the low chuckle. He could see in his mind's eye all too well Moriarty brushing the vial against his cheek.

"Well this will have to do. I'll be seeing you again, Doctor Watson. So try not to be too lonely while I'm gone." The laser sights flashing across the Doctor's chest were entirely unnecessary and kept him only from reaching out to Sherlock for just long enough for Moriarty to leave the room.

The detective was no longer seizing and it seemed as though, judging by the state of his eyes (rolled nearly to the back of his head) and his lips (a delicate shade of blue) that he had fallen into something similar like a coma. His body was trembling, shaking as though he were in an advanced state of hypothermia, yet his temperature was dangerously high. There was no time for guesswork, no time to muck about with chemicals and possibilities. Blood. He'd given it to Moriarty believing only half-heartedly that it would work but… could it? Were he capable of seeing himself he might be surprised to see him making a face that Sherlock would recognize; his eyes were half-lidded, lips parted just slightly as his gaze flickered silently beneath his lids as he searched for options the fastest way he knew how. John's Library, a trick he had learned as a child from a mentor early in his life (a similarity to the fictional Hannibal Lector always looming with its use), housed the most extensive medical knowledge known to humankind. Of course he had other bits and bobs hiding in every nook and cranny but it was with the world of medicine he had originally been obsessed with and which had soon overtaken the majority of his life.

The trip through his Library was harrowing, exhausting and utterly perfect. Time spent away from the lab had pushed many a memory from his mind and the early experiments he'd performed on himself had been forgotten until that moment. Without a shadow of a doubt that blood would help Moriarty. Help, not solve the overwhelming issue, and likely give him another year or two to live. The problem of course was that the blood, the substance, needed to be fresh. Away from John, whose brain and heart were in essence the battery that fueled the regenerative properties of his blood, the blood would become next to useless. Good only for relieving a tension headache, at best.

Sherlock was no longer moving in any sense of the word. His skin was sallow, pale and clammy to the touch. John could literally see the few moments during which he might save the man slipping from his fingers.

He worked quickly as he tore Sherlock's coat from him, followed by his jacket and then shirt. The wound looked gangrenous; it was seeping and smelled as close to death as John felt a smell could be. There was no time. A pair of tweezers remedied the bullet itself, still lodged in the muscle of Sherlock's shoulder. He fumbled for the knife he'd used only moments earlier to rip Sherlock's clothes and sliced through the freshly knit skin of his palm. It became evident almost immediately that he was right. The smell receded as the blood dripped into the wound and after a moment the color started a slow return to normal. It was a slow process, John having to re-open his wound, but there was little else he could do in those first moments, too terrified of losing him to find a needle.

Failure was not an option.

OoOoOoO

Time did that strange thing it seemed to do around John. He remembered nodding off, his still seeping hand pressed firmly against Sherlock's wound. He remembered removing the bullet; the heat coming from it had been all at once fascinating and horrifying. He remembered Mycroft. Mycroft and his men, storming the metaphorical castle and trying to tear Sherlock away from him; he remembered screaming, his own voice, until Mycroft would stop and listen. The world continued to blur and they were moving, John still slicing his hand, feeling sick for the first time since medical school, since creating what now flowed through his veins as blood, and touching his weary and worn flesh to that of Sherlock's wound.

And then…home. Initially they had struck out for the hospital, but assured by John that they would undoubtedly kill Sherlock, they had gone to John's preferred place of residence. Aided by Mycroft personally, the pair managed to haul the still unconscious consulting detective up the stairs and into the flat. Despite John's lame attempts to assure the elder Holmes that everything was perfectly alright and that additional protection was not needed, 221B Baker Street was outfitted with four personnel authorized to do "whatever necessary" to keep the two safe. It did not take much convincing for the men to remain outside of the flat proper; John's constant masochistic medicinal treatments were both violent and messy, not to mention gruesome, and the bodyguards had not put up much of a fight to remain inside. It wasn't until they had let them alone that John had finally removed the set of needles he had absconded with; cutting his hand was inefficient and really he'd only continued to do so to further dissuade extra company. Aided by the angel who was Mrs. Hudson, John set up a transfusion table using his own squirreled away supplies. Injecting Sherlock with his blood had gotten him out of the woods but without removing the diseased blood entirely from his system, Sherlock would not stand a chance. Only John's body could handle the intake of the dead blood and despite the horrendous pain it caused him, he was only too happy to oblige.

Mycroft's gaze was harsh and hawk-like; there would be questions to answer once Sherlock was out of the woods and, considering how easily Moriarty had ransacked his records, he doubted there would be much he could do to conceal his past. Eventually he, too, left them alone, shooed away by the godsend that was Mrs. Hudson in all of her glory. She, too, had questions (John could see them dancing in her eyes) but she kept them at bay, doing little more than offering what aide she could despite how uncomfortable she appeared to be.

Eventually Sherlock became stable enough for John to rest and, comforted by Mrs. Hudson and her attentive and protective stance, he trudged the stairs to his room. He was absolutely certain that the only reason he was not suffering from blood loss or from the RBC-2 was his body's regenerative abilities forcing the creation of new blood almost as quickly as he had been using it. Removing his clothing was too arduous a task for him to take on (he continued to be proud that he had not crawled his way upstairs) and caring little more for the state of his sheets than for the state of his mind, John passed out atop his covers.

OoOoOoO

He had no idea how much time had passed when something disturbed his sleep. The light outside had changed from the broad daylight rescue earlier in the day and it was now solidly evening. Something was wrong. He'd been very strict in informing Mrs. Hudson that he was to be awoken in a few hours, or sooner should Sherlock take a turn for the worse, but he had requested that she knock on his door before entering. Movement, the shifting of fabric and the careful footsteps of someone navigating an unfamiliar room in the dark, indicated that either she had not followed his instruction or…

Or someone else was in the room with him.

Adrenaline, now an old friend, flooded his system and laying there he tensed, muscles ready to spring into action.

"S'alright." Came a soft murmur, followed by the smell that had first awoken him in the lab. Still, the tension would not leave him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was because Sherlock and his bedroom were two things, when combined, which produced that strange feeling he'd been struggling with earlier this year. Some curious amalgamation of all things being right and all things being wrong. On the surface, John could not help but think this was another trick. He would open his eyes and he would be back in that lab and Moriarty would be leaning over him, eyes bright and smile wide.

Just beside him the mattress depressed, the weight of another human being creaking the old springs and pulling him back from his lucid nightmare. There was a hand at his back, applying just enough pressure as to be reassuring.

"John." The man in questioned paused only momentarily before shifting his position, turning just slightly so that he was facing both his door and the man on his bed. He stomach was tied in knots; his every inch of attention seemed drawn to Sherlock's hand at his back and suddenly he wished the man would just stay there forever. With him. In the dark.

"I knew, you know." Despite his exhaustion John could not help his flinch away from Sherlock; he pushed himself up with his hands and arms, feeling far too defensive.

"The hell does that mean?" John croaked.

"I…have known who you are for quite some time. Mycroft has had his suspicions but, until now, he had thought them to be unfounded. If there had been even a shadow of a doubt, which of course there hadn't been, they would have been dispelled at the pool."

"If…If you knew, Sherlock, why wouldn't you… Why did you…," He struggled, unable to fully verbalize his anxiety. He knew? How much did he know? How much would he WANT to know? Would things change now?

"It's alright, John." The feeling of Sherlock's hand against his cheek, cradling his face, thumb lightly against his mouth, was enough to shut his mind down. His thoughts stuttered to a halt and he was only aware of himself and of the man sitting across from him. Of the man who was leaning forward. Of the man who was pressing his forehead against his own. Sherlock's eyes were closed and John desperately wished he would open them.

"You have the most…amazing grasp on the people around you, yet you have no idea what's going on in your own head, do you? You're worse than me, you know. I don't care but I manage to not care on a wide scale level. You care so much, too much, for everyone else but keep none of it for yourself." Hearing such a succinct description of himself from someone so cut off from the world around him was a bit dizzying. "It's…pretty stupid for someone as intelligent as you." Dumbfounded, the doctor could do little more than sit and breathe and try not to explode.

"Aren't you…going to ask me… About Moriarty?" John breathed, finally managing to say something.

"Mmm… There'll be time for that. For all of that. Later." The gap closed; Sherlock's lips were on his own. Everything fell away, including whatever resolves he'd been grasping on to, and suddenly everything was right in the world.

Epilogue

"How long?"

"Hmmm?"

"Come on, Sherlock, how long have you known? About me, I mean. You've never SAID anything and you just treated me…the same." The shifting of fabric; heat at his back and an arm over his chest, pulling him closer to the origin of said heat. Soft breath against his neck and lips pressed oh so gently at the base of his neck and what was it that he had been saying? A moan slipped past John's lips, exacerbated by the rogue hand now wandering south.

"Stop; I'm trying to talk to you-,"

"Do you REALLY want me to stop? You seem to be enjoying this."

"What about Moriarty, ahh…," John's attention was sufficiently re-routed and, for quite some time, the only sounds coming from his room were low moans and contented sighs. Days had passed since John had been recovered and, aside from a few phone calls and the strict medical attention John insisted Sherlock receive, the two had not left each other's side. It was as though a floodgate had been open the moment Sherlock had finally reached out to him. As…embarrassing as it was to admit, the consulting detective had been right. John had been neglecting himself in more ways than one. He had taken on the world, allowing its' weight to lay directly on his shoulders. He had not even realized how lonely he had been.

John had also come clean to Sherlock about the degenerative eye disease. Sherlock had been surprisingly receptive and, when John commented on this, had received only a slight smirk and the reassurance that Sherlock was not in fact worried, despite the fact that John's blood had only just halted its' progress. When pressed further Sherlock stated that he, John, would fix his problem and to get back in bed because the heat was off and he was cold.

Mycroft had, eventually, gotten through despite Sherlock's unwillingness to respond to the phone calls and black limos. With Sherlock lying on the couch and John poised on the easy chair, Mycroft had chosen to stand, hovering over the two with a look that showed his awareness of ALL situations and his utter lack of interest in it all.

"So."

"So."

"Oh come off it, Mycroft, you had something to do with Moriarty's disappearance, didn't you?" The subsequent smile told John all he needed to know and yet, somehow, this did not upset the doctor. Instead he found himself relaxing; knowing that the brothers had come together to keep him from Moriarty's creepy clutches was solidifying. He meant something to someone somewhere. The thought was not only grounding but, oddly, comforting. Like realizing just what he had been missing in the solidarity of his life.

"Let's just say that… Moriarty's network has been uprooted and many a man rerouted. We have our eyes on him and will until he comes back to London."

"How much do you know, Mycroft?" Silence. The brothers shared a look that left a smile curling across John's face. He remained as silent as the room, however, until Mycroft finally sighed a response.

"We know it has something to do with a shortened life expectancy; otherwise any other doctor or highly trained medical professional would have sufficed. He would not have needed you enough to find you." John's smile curled into something like a smirk; for the first time he accepted his superiority in this regard. Just as clearly as he could see that Mycroft had recently, as in that same day, had some pretty successful and amazing sex and was also developing an allergy to dust, John could see that they could NOT see.

"A tumor." The brothers simultaneously stiffened and the subsequent silence was pregnant and dark with their unanswered questions.

"Inoperable, I assume." Mycroft finally managed.

"Of course; size of a softball and malignant. He'd been given six months, which was inaccurate. He refused treatment and…he would have been dead within two and a half at best."

"WOULD have."

"Yeah, Sherlock. Would have. He… He had some of my blood. I gave it to him under some extreme duress."

"So, John. Does that mean he's-,"

"No. No, Mycroft, he's going to die if he doesn't come back for me. My blood is only good fresh. The potency of it is reduced to nothing after only a few hours. So he's…he's going to…," It was difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat As hard as he had tried to put the experience onto a dark shelf in his Library he seemed incapable of forgetting it. He could still feel the man's mouth on his own, his hands on his arms and he could see the violence in his body and John was just as incapable of putting any of it aside. He felt more than saw Sherlock's eyes on him and a sense of something close to calm washed over him.

"We have more surveillance on both of you than ever before and we are keeping close watch on Moriarty's movements. The moment he steps back on English soil…we'll know." John did not state that they should have known the moment he had been kidnapped but he was thinking it. Loudly.

"Yes, yes Mycroft. Now if you'll excuse us, we have a case to solve, so…," Still facing the couch, Sherlock was now waving Mycroft from the room. With little more than a curt nod and the promise that he would be in touch, Mycroft saw himself out. John's head was supported in his hands, shoulders hunched and mind completely mired in thoughts he wished he were not thinking. Arms wrapping around his neck, a face pressing gently into the side of his neck and a cheek against his cheek… Tension flowing freely from his shoulders as Sherlock's scent invaded his senses.

"You're alright, John. You're here. With me. You're alright."

"You know… my nightmares… They're not… They're not getting any better. And he… he said he'd come back. For me. Are you sure you want-?" But then the man's lips were somehow on his own and the talking, for now, was finished.