A/N: Hey folks! Soooo sorry for the long delay in updating. You see, there was this racoon who came in while I was sleeping and stole my computer... (okay, so the first one to get that reference will be proclaimed genius of the month and receive a Cheekbones Award!)

And you should thank A_Sherlocked_Girl who made me bin the terrible first draft of this chapter. It really was ghastly.

So where are we at in the story, you ask? Here's a little refresher:

Sherlock created a paradox that broke John's Dreams. To get John out of his maudling mood over his lack of visions, Sherlock takes him on a case at the bequest of Lestrade-murder, blackmail, kidnapping...nothing fancy- and solves it, of course, after much running and almost getting killed.

Now... enjoy :)

The next two weeks were abysmally normal. John insisted on using the term normal, not boring, normal. This is how people lived: they got up, took a quiet breakfast while reading the paper, went about their day with nothing more extraordinary happening other than finding a severed hand in their fridge, ordered take-out, watched some crap telly and went to bed again. If he started moaning about how dull and boring it was, like Sherlock did about every five minutes, his detective friend might find another seemingly boring case that might just get them killed again. Especially Sherlock, since he lacked any kind of self-preservation.

Their relationship, on the other hand, was growing by small leaps at the oddest of times. Sherlock, being the self-proclaimed sociopath, not that John believed it for a second himself, but still, he let Sherlock set the pace, being perfectly content himself with a tender or passionate kiss here and there, and the surprisingly sweet hand-holding or cuddling on the couch. It was almost as much as he could handle for now, Sherlock being Sherlock, turning every little mundane thing into something indecently intense.

But every now and then, Without warning, Sherlock would hunt him down and his fingers would become adventurous, digging under his clothes and trailing the lines of his body, his hands roaming over his back, hair or bum, or he would just plain tear his clothes off, as if he'd suddenly been overwhelmed by an itch to get more of John. And John didn't complain, on the contrary, his body was very enthusiastic about letting Sherlock-the-Explorer get what he wanted, but not when one of his urges overtook him after he'd just harpooned a pig and was covered in blood, and certainly not when they had company. Although, John supposed Sherlock had done that on purpose just to get rid of his brother.

John sighed happily as he took a bite out of his burnt toast. He shouldn't think about Sherlock when preparing meals, it always ended badly, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to Sherlock's next bout of exploration.

"You look chipper today," Sherlock mused, looking up from his microscope for the first time that morning. He'd been entirely too focused before that to notice John, his dopy smile, or the toaster coughing up noxious smoke. "No Dream?"

John shook his head. No Dream, not patches of sound and colour that made no sense but were at least an indication that something was in the making.

"Either you truly broke my ability with your paradoxes, or, I don't know, maybe Moriarty and all the others psychopaths out there got bored of your apparent invulnerability."

Sherlock smirked.

"Or maybe... I was reading that new book on Jack-the-Ripper… Yes, I know you find it ridiculous. Humour me. The murders suddenly ended, because the killer was interned in mental asylums until his death. Maybe something similar happened to Moriarty. God knows he belongs there, but maybe he got hit by a bus, or choked on a peanut. Either of those is fine by me… All I'm saying is that maybe we don't have to worry about that particular threat anymore."

"Wishful thinking, John," Sherlock replied with a fond smile. "I agree his silence and lack of action since your escape is a bit strange, but I don't doubt for a second he's still out there. I wouldn't underestimate him if I were you."

"But it's been over three weeks!"

"Yes, and whatever he's planning, we shouldn't let our guard down. Even Mycroft is keeping a close eye on us. He seemed quite interested in the fellow too. He wouldn't tell me why, though."

John frowned. He thought they might have been granted an easy way out of their confrontation with the madman after reading that stupid book, but it was too much to hope that all the criminally insane died rotting in a padded cell.

ooo

John was much less chipper as he went to the Tesco that afternoon. Out of milk again. John had no idea how the stuff disappeared so fast. He'd tried to catch Sherlock red-handed using it in his experiments, or emptying it down the drain or… something. But so far, no luck. The milk just vanished sometime during the night, and he was even starting to suspect the fridge itself.

John had meandered through the shop to find the odd items Sherlock had requested - and no, John had not asked what he needed a thousand toothpicks for, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He was trying to decide between two brands of biscuit that looked exactly the same to him, except for the price, when his phone ringed obnoxiously loudly. He really needed to find how to change that. Wiggins had returned his phone, granted, but he'd also found it funny to mess with his settings and put him the Tin Soldier song as his ringtone for some reason. He hadn't even known you could put such old songs as a ringtone.

"I'm a little tin soldier

that wants to jump into your fire"

John juggled between his shopping basket, packets of biscuits and phone, but managed to cut it off before it went any further. He could feel a blush warm his cheeks though. Stupid Wiggins. How had he even known he was a soldier?

"Yes?" he said tersely. It wasn't a number he knew, but he only had about five or six contacts saved on his phone, and it might be important.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend, Johnny boy?"

That voice… The blood that had coloured John's cheeks moments ago, vanished in an instant and his mouth felt dry. How had that madman gotten his phone number? No, scratch that: why was he calling him? Why not Sherlock? Or had he already? The thought of Sherlock brought him out of his shocked silence.

"What do you want?" he spat.

"Oh, Johnny. Always so feisty. I just wanted to see if you would have a nice little chat with me over tea. Talk about old times and our common interest."

"You're even more delusional than I imagined if you thought I'd agree."

"Uhm, yes. That's why I'm sending you an incentive," Moriarty replied just as his phone pinged.

John looked at it with puzzlement until he noticed the little icon indicating he had a text and it took him a couple of minutes to figure out how to open it without hanging up, but when he did, he wished he hadn't. It was a picture of Harry, looking warily at the camera with her face squished against Moriarty's lunatic face. Anger swelled in him like a tidal wave. Anger at the madman for getting his paws over his sister, but mostly anger at himself for not having thought of getting her any sort of protection, for not warning her a that a madman had taken an interest in him. John hadn't worried about something like that happening to Sherlock because he was more than enough protected by both John and Mycroft, not to mention Sherlock could protect himself, but the thought had never even crossed his mind that Moriarty would go dig up his estranged sister to use as a pressure point against him. The Watson siblings didn't get along, sure, but he didn't want any harm to come to her, especially not because of him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

"Johnny booooooy!" his phone called out with a shrill voice. "Are you still with me Johnny boy?"

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"I thought I made myself clear on that point: you. You will come nicely, no shenanigans like the last time. Is that clear?"

John nodded and croaked out a yes. He had no choice, but he could still alert Sherlock, send him a text, and there were the CCTVs right in front of the Tesco. Mycroft might be looking too.

"Good boy," Moriarty cooed. "Now, give your phone to the nice man, follow his instructions and nothing will happen to your dear sister."

A large gloved hand appeared in his line of vision and John looked up to see the tall muscled blond that had tried to shoot him in the middle of a crowded street when he'd escaped the car boot. Ruthless. Just great. John handed him his phone.

"Yes," the blond said simply into the phone and hung up. John wasn't surprised, since he had already gathered from their previous encounter that the man wasn't much of a talker.

He fiddled with John's phone for a bit and left it atop the shelves where no one would be able to find it by accident, and then nudged John towards the back of the shop, where he doubted very much there were CCTV cameras. He was screwed. Sherlock wouldn't even know he was gone before it was much too late, and if he was in the middle of one of his experiments or reorganizing his mind palace, he might not even notice until tonight and the trail would have gone cold by then. The shop's security cameras would only show he'd gone willingly, and what would Sherlock make of that?

A car was waiting at the back, door open and engine running.

"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered and the blond shrugged but looked slightly amused, the first sign John had seen that the man was actually human and not some kind of cyborg killing machine from the future.

The sleek black car waiting for them was the very same that Moriarty had used to kidnap him the first time around. Talk about a sick sense of humour. John reluctantly climbed in, the other man close behind him, and he looked glumly out of the window at the people going on with their lives without a clue about what was going on right next to them. He thought he would at least know where he was going this time around, but after about ten minutes of driving further away from the city center, the blond handed him a blindfold.

"Seriously?" John asked.

The other man didn't even bother to reply, just looked at him with those emotionless eyes until he complied. John sat back in the comfy leather seat, trying to evaluate the distance and the turns they were taking, but for all he knew, the driver would take them around in circles just to get him confused, which he was.

Mission accomplished, one point for the bad guys!

"Johnny boy!" Moriarty exclaimed when he climbed blindly out of the car, which wasn't helped by the fact that he was now handcuffed to the blond. Talk about paranoia.

But hearing those words, that blasted nickname… John flinched, taking a step back and colliding into the blond. He told himself it was because he was blindfolded and hadn't expected the greeting, not because Moriarty's mere voice was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. John took a deep breath and stood taller, not wanting to seem intimidated. No need to give his enemies more power over him.

"Where's Harry?" he demanded.

"Oh, I never had her," Moriarty answered dismissively, just as the blindfold came off his eyes.

John blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. 'Warehouse' was his first thought and he wanted to laugh at the predictability if he hadn't found himself in such a dire situation because of his own stupidity. Sherlock would have seen straight through Moriarty's lie… if it was one.

"I don't trust you," he said.

"Of course you don't," Moriarty replied and handed him a phone.

It was ringing.

"Harry Watson speaking," she announced, words clipped and to the point. Still at work, then. Not kidnapped by a madman, just going on with her everyday life.

"Harry? It's John. I… I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"John? Well, That's a surprise. You don't call me nearly often enough, you know. Actually, I thought of calling you today, too. I met one of your friends at a club yesterday. Jim, or Tim? Something like that. Right creepy bastard if you ask me. Took a picture to send you. Is that why you called? Because if you're trying to set us up, I might have to remind you-"

"No! God, no, Harry!" he exclaimed, effectively shutting her up because that image was just too disturbing to give voice to it. "In fact, if you see him again, run. He-"

John felt a gun nudge the small of his back.

"Bye, Harry. I… I do care about you, you know."

Moriarty snatched his phone back, Harry's voice still drifting out of it, and he smiled, or rather, showed his teeth, because there was nothing warm about his expression.

"See? I can be trusted. But I'm quite disappointed you were so easy to fool. I really don't know what Sherlock sees in you. Well, not all of it. You have some skills I appreciate myself. Even Seb was impressed by your Houdini act and he's not easily impressed, let me tell you."

John huffed, but filed away the information he had gained about the blond's name. However, if Moriarty was just there to mock him, he could just sod off.

"I thought there might have been a little more to you, so imagine my disappointment when I learned you were just his little fuck toy."

John must have looked like he'd been slapped in the face because Moriarty gleefully continued his little monologue.

"Oh, yes, I know. Never thought I'd see the day Sherlock Holmes let himself be ruled by his flesh," he said as he flipped through pictures of the both of them on his phone, showing them off to John. It was more along the lines of intimate gestures: holding hands or a stolen kiss when they thought no one was looking. Certainly not anything that could suggest he was Sherlock's 'fuck toy' as Moriarty so crudely put it, they were far from being that intimate, but the madman probably didn't understand anything about love or relationships. Not that John would correct him. The more Moriarty was mistaken, the better it was for him, and for Sherlock.

"So what? You think that by taking me out of the picture, Sherlock is suddenly going to break down?" he scoffed.

"On the contrary," Moriarty said gleefully. "I'm not getting rid of you, Johnny boy. You're the grand prize. Much like you, Sherlock needs some incentive to come out and play with me."

"You're a sick bastard," John spat and was rewarded with a sharp jab right in the kidney.

All right, so 'Seb' did not tolerate his boss being insulted to his face. Noted. John struggled to get upright again and glared at Moriarty.

"Take him down, Sebastian. And make sure he can't escape this time. We wouldn't want a repeat of last time, now, would we? I can't wait to see the look on Sherlock's face when he realizes I've taken away his precious toy. It is going to be soooooo much fun. I wonder if I should tell him myself? Because who knows how long it will take him to notice you're gone? He's not all that keen, is he?"

John clenched his jaw and said nothing, because the Moriarty was at least partly right in that regard, and Sebastian pulled him away after him, into the darkness.

John inspected the surroundings, trying to find any clue as to his location. He'd been wondering if this was the same warehouse that had been used in his last Dream, the one where Moriarty had set his trap. It could be, it was just as grimy and small. They should have tried to pinpoint that location even if the Dream had been invalidated thanks to Sherlock's meddling. Maybe Sherlock would have thought to look there and found him… But maybe that was just wishful thinking again. John was too much of an optimist. Anyway, he certainly couldn't blame Sherlock for the mess he'd gotten himself in. He'd have to get himself out of it by his own means. He'd managed it once before, he could do it again.

Sebastian pushed him into a cell in the basement that seemed much newer than the rest of the old building, and looked like it had been set up just for him. Why would there even be a cell in a warehouse in the first place?

"You shouldn't have gone through all the trouble," John said mockingly and he once more caught a glimmer of humour on the other man's face.

Apparently, what small humanity remained in Moriarty's right-hand man liked his dry sense of humour, but, as usual, he remained quiet and pushed his prisoner in the cell. John would have fell forward if he hadn't been held back by the cuffs linking him to the taller man. He indicated John take a seat on the cot and proceeded to clasp another cuff around his ankle before unlocking the one at their wrists. Definitely more paranoid and careful than the last time, which didn't bode well for his plans of escape. Sebastian smirked as if he'd been reading his mind and stepped out of the cell, closing and locking the barred door behind him, before leaving the way they'd come, which looked like a gaping dark hole from here.

John gave himself a minute to just breathe all the tension out of him. It could be worse, he told himself. The last time they'd met, Moriarty had been dead set on torturing him. Now that he had been demoted to the position of sex toy, he was merely a bait of some sort, which was still a bit not good, but at least he'd be staying in one piece. For now.

John inspected his new home. Three sturdy walls of stone, no window, but given that he was underground, that was no surprise. The fourth wall was just made of metal bars with a door cut in the middle. Crude, but solid. No apparent way out unless he got his hands on a key and so far he hadn't seen any guard. It would probably be a useless endeavour to cry out for help too, seeing how thorough they were being. Plus, there was the minor problem of being tied down at the ankle. The cuff itself looked more solid than the standard handcuffs police used, or criminals for that matter, but the lock looked about the same. John smiled. Sherlock had taught him how to pick those one rainy night when he was bored, he'd just have to find something to use as a picklock, but first, he followed the chain. It was long, very long, and tied into the wall itself. He walked around the cell and found that he could reach the toilet and sink that had been installed in one corner -very thoughtful of the madman, if it hadn't just been a means to stop him from escaping by asking to use the bathroom, which also meant that he was probably here for a long stay. The chain was just short enough to prevent him from reaching the barred door though. Figures.

There was nothing else here, save for a dirty lightbulb set on the other side of the bars and that gave off a gloomy light and a faint buzzing noise.

With nothing else to do, John immediately began making an inventory of the bits and bobs that lingered in his pockets: one pound and sixty five pence in coins and a twenty pound note he'd just taken from the cash dispenser for the groceries, a button he had lost from one of his shirts and that he'd meant to sew back on ages ago, and the small notebook and pencil he carried around when he went on cases with Sherlock, as well as using it for his shopping list. Sebastian had taken his keys and wallet from him before pushing him out of the car earlier on. So, in short, not much to go on. Nothing he could use to pick a lock in any case. No handy paper-clip, bobby pin or bra wire, as Sherlock had instructed, although why he would have that last item on his person was a mystery. John should add paper clips to the list of things to always carry around.

Just then, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he peered towards the exit because the rest of the underground space was visibly empty, even in this glum light.

"Hello?" he called, but received no answer.

He stared at the dark doorway for a while but saw nothing more and decided it could have been a rat. A very large, white rat, that scuttled around six feet above the ground. John snorted at the thought and all but dissected his cell in search of something to use as a picklock. By the time he decided one of the wire bits under the sink was just fine and flexible enough to be used, and wouldn't be missed because it only served to push the sink's pop-up plug from what he could make out, it was too late to try dismantling it because a guard finally appeared, looking just as ruthless as Sebastian and Moriarty. He had a gun out and pointed at John, as if he could do anything from behind bars, while his other hand held a small water bottle and a sandwich that he threw between the bars in his general direction before disappearing through the gaping hole facing his prison again.

"Thanks!" John shouted belatedly in that direction, wondering what Moriarty had told his guard to make him so tetchy.

He picked up his meal, smoothing the dent out of the water bottle, and set it on his bed, not hungry in the least. He checked no one was looking through the exit and went to work on the underside of the sink. It was harder than he thought it would be to pry the metal bit out without any tools but he finally succeeded and punched the air in triumph before returning to his bed for some much deserved comfort. He thought he caught sight of the guard peeking out from the doorway again while he drank from the bottle but the little bugger was as furtive as a rat so he couldn't be sure. And then, he wasn't sure of anything anymore because his brain turned to mush and his eyes kept drooping of their own accord.

"Bastard," John muttered, still trying to fight off the drugs but losing to a deep unnatural sleep.

ooo

John was completely disoriented when he woke up the next morning. Or afternoon? Night? He had no idea, but judging by the scruff on his face, he'd been locked here at least twenty four hours. Whatever they'd put in his water was strong. The knock-out-an-elephant kind of strong. John almost took a reflexive sip of water from the bottle since his throat was parched dry to the point of being painful, but he stopped himself just in time and chuckled humorlessly, getting up to empty the drugged water into the sink. He washed the bottle out, but, unsure that would be sufficient, he drank from the tap itself. He wasn't about to get knocked out again. That would show some level of idiocy even he wasn't willing to own up to.

His stomach growled and he glanced warily at the sandwich that had fallen to the ground sometime during his slumber, after he'd rolled over it a couple of times by the look of it. The food could be drugged too, he wouldn't take the chance. No. He had to get out of here before Sherlock worried too much, or before Moriarty manipulated him into doing something stupid.

John went through his morning routine as well as he could given the circumstances, and felt much refreshed for his trouble, even if the edge of hunger was still there, at least the haze of the drugs was gone. He could ignore the hunger for a while longer, he knew, and he had plenty of water to fill his stomach, if he drank from the tap, that is.

John searched the bed for his precious piece of metal, glad it hadn't been nicked while he'd been knocked out. Thankfully, their paranoia only ran so deep, or they underestimated him again. Probably both.

It took a while to snap the wire in two and then bend those into the desired shape before he went to work picking his lock like Sherlock had taught him. He had never imagined he would actually have to use this skill as a matter of life or death, but was glad he'd been attentive enough that he could… Yes! With an almighty click, the cuff opened. John peered at the door, certain the whole building must have heard the sound of freedom, but no head appeared to peek through the door and after a good ten minutes, John creeped slowly towards his prison door. The lock was more complex and could only be accessed through the other side. It would be much more difficult. In fact, John wasn't even sure he could pull it off this time, but he would try, for Sherlock, if nothing else. The great prat probably hadn't even thought of eating or sleeping since he'd vanished. He hoped Mrs Hudson would take it upon herself to drop off some tea and scones. Sherlock could never resist those, even while working on a case.

John cursed. He was quickly getting frustrated with the sodding lock. He had been working on the ruddy thing for what felt like an hour without any progress to show for it, except for the dull ache in his wrists he got from bending them at such an unnatural angle, his cheek was getting bruised from being pressed into the bars in his effort to see what he was doing and he even managed to puncture his skin a couple of times on the wire's pointy bits. He was thinking the situation couldn't possibly get any worse when a string of curses that weren't coming from him this time, had him snap his head up. His eyes locked on his furious guard who advancing on him with his nostrils flaring, his weapon drawn, and his finger already on the trigger.

"Wait," John said, stepping back towards the far side of the cell with his hands raised.

But the guard was having none of it, his finger pressed tightly on the trigger and John fell like a ton of bricks.