John hurt all over, which was good news, considering he expected to be dead, and he doubted he'd feel this much pain if he was dead, so he counted himself lucky. But his guard had shot him… hadn't he? He should be feeling a lot worse than he was if so.

John did his best to extend his senses outwards. He could feel the cold concrete floor, but no sticky puddle of congealed blood - again, good news. The faint buzzing from the overhead light told him the damn thing was still on and he wondered if they did that on purpose so he could have no idea of the time of the day. He forced his eyelids up and bingo! He was greeted by the expected gloomy light on the other side of the bars. It took John some time and effort to drag himself into a sitting position against the wall and realize the pain he was feeling was more due to his cold and cramped muscles than anything else. He sighed in relief when he ascertained he had no bullet wound, not even a graze. He didn't think his body could deal with any more abuse after his last trip at the hospital, and he already had his fair share of scars. He realized how vain his thoughts were and snorted. What were a few scars when his life was on the line. He continued his inspection of his body and found a small puncture wound where he thought he'd been shot. Tranquilizer gun then. All right, that explained why he'd slept on the floor and it probably accounted for the massive headache playing congas with his brain too. But it didn't account for the few bruises he found on his stomach and face, so his guard must have come in to vent some of his anger with a few well aimed kicks, and if his jailor had come in… Yep, his picklock was missing and his ankle was back in its cuff again.

He dragged himself onto the bed. How long had he been knocked out this time? He had no way to measure the time, but the edge of hunger he had felt the last time he was conscious had turned into real pangs now, and even with the drugs he'd been given still making him woozy, he wouldn't say no to some hot shepherd's pie right about now. His sandwich had disappeared along with his picklock though and John hoped his guard wasn't going to withhold food as punishment for his escape attempt. That's what prisoners did, after all, it would be unnatural not to try escaping his prison so it shouldn't be held against him. John's stomach growled. He wished he could go without food the way Sherlock did, but he knew that if his guard tossed another sandwich at him right this instant, he'd be on it like a starved mongrel on a bone, drugs be damned.

Except he couldn't. He needed to get back to Sherlock, and sooner rather than later. Who knew what Moriarty was playing at with his Sherlock, making him jump through hoops for his own twisted entertainment..

Psycho.

John pushed himself out of the bed, lest he fall asleep again, and walked over to the sink to splash water on his face. Better. His mind sharper. John looked under the sink and grinned. The second part of the metal mechanism he had used as a picklock was still there. His guard must have assumed he had brought the other piece on him. A correct deduction if the disappearance of his money from his pockets was any indication that his guard had gone through his belongings in search of other picklocks. Sherlock would be pleased of the bad influence he was having on his thought process. He hoped he got the chance to tell him about it soon.

John was interrupted halfway through his dismantling of the second piece of metal and pretended to have been taking a piss while his guard tossed another sandwich through the bars. John glowered at the cellophaned food, torn between hunger and weariness, the latter winning the battle when he caught the guard's mocking smile. That one was drugged, without the shadow of a doubt, but his stomach howled in protest nonetheless when John turned his back on it to continue working on the sink as soon as he was left alone again..

When the metal piece yielded, John hid it in his sleeve and tottered back to the cot where he fell face first. Too much drugs, not enough food, bad combination. He felt weak when he needed to be strong. He cast a baleful eye at the sandwich, wishing it would sprout tiny legs and scuttle away through the bars, because he didn't have the will to toss it out of his prison himself. If he touched it, he would eat it.

With a sigh, John righted himself and managed to open the cuff on his ankle in record time. Luck rather than skill, he thought, but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He scrambled to the door and started fiddling with its lock again. Sherlock could probably have it open in under a minute, blindfolded and with his hands tied together while reciting the periodic table. Hell, Sherlock could probably charm the thing open with one of his rare smiles that made his eyes crinkle and turn the world into a better place. But as far as John was concerned, this lock was pure evil, the only thing standing between him and freedom. Well, that and his trigger-happy guard, with maybe more guards upstairs, but that seemed easy to deal with in comparison. John also had to keep an eye and ear open for his jailor so he wouldn't be caught in the act like the last time, which wasn't helping any.

But it yielded, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, the lock just gave up and slid open. So did the door which was holding all his weight and he fell forward, face first, but old reflexes die hard and he rolled into a ball, getting upright in an instant. He was surprised himself, he wasn't as young and spry as he used to be. He certainly hadn't used that little trick since his last tour in Afghanistan, but he was glad for it, because the guard was already there, looking murderous this time. Maybe he was fed up enough that he would use real bullets this time around. But no, the gun he was holding was a simple dart gun, he should have seen it when it had been pointed at him before.

You see but you do not observe. How true.

"You! You don't learn, do you?" the guard bellowed, his gun already out and pointed at him.

John put his hands up like he had the last time, as if he was surrendering, before he lunged himself right at his opponent who froze in surprise, just long enough for John to shove his arm aside. The shot went wide and hit the wall if the thunk to his left was any indication. He was still using tranquilizers. Good. John dodged a punch and used his momentum to land an uppercut that sent the other man reeling back, but not for long. He massaged his jaw, glowering at John, and shot in his direction again. John had to throw himself to the ground, which, he realized too late, was exactly what the guard wanted because he had him pinned to the ground before John could get back up and punched him hard enough to make him dizzy. John pushed and kicked to get the heavier man off, when his hand closed around the ammunition tied to his belt. Not believing his luck, John quickly snatched one of the spare darts off while he was getting the shit beat out of him and stuck it in his attacker's thigh, who rapidly slumped forward, on top of him.

"Oomph," went all the air rushing out of his lungs.

And here, he'd thought Sherlock was heavy. This bloke felt like a mountain had just decided to take a nap on him. With the last of his strength, John pushed the unconscious man's left shoulder until he rolled off and landed in a heap next to him. He then took his gun and reloaded it, just in case there were other guards around, even if he had only ever seen this one. He hurried out of the basement and up the dark stairs, feeling the air get less stale as he ascended, but he couldn't see any daylight under the door to the upper level so he assumed it was night. A good time to escape, all things considered. He went to push the door open when someone wrenched it open from the other side and he was left to stare dumbly at Sebastian. To his credit, the man rapidly hid his surprise and had John in a chokehold before he could even think to shoot the hulking bodyguard down. Not that it would have helped much since Moriarty was there too, impeccably dressed in a suit, as always.

"Oh, Johnny! Were you leaving? That's a bit rude," he said as if he was grounding a misbehaving child. "After I went through all the trouble of freeing my schedule just to visit you."

John couldn't retort where he could stuff his free time since he was too busy trying to pry Sebastian's overly muscled arms away from his trachea with both hands in an effort to breathe. Fuck! That meant he'd dropped the weapon.

"I think he needs a little oxygen, dear," Moriarty pointed out, and the grip released marginally.

John gulped in the air as if it was going out of style, before he became too tired and defeated to do even that. Fuck it! He'd been so close! SO! CLOSE! He could literally taste freedom from here. It was right behind that door, and smelled of rain. It had rained and he hadn't even known it. What he wouldn't give to go walking out in the rain and curse about the poor weather and that he'd forgotten to take an umbrella, exchange mockeries with Sherlock about Mycroft who always had an umbrella, track water up the stairs to 221B Baker Street and listen Mrs Hudson admonish them for being so careless. He wanted to go home. He wanted Sherlock.

He was back in his cell instead, his ankle tied, his second picklock confiscated and the barred door closed again. The fight had gone right out of him and he even felt like sleeping, shutting out this bleak reality and his failure, but that thought went right out of his mind when a loud gunshot echoed around the cavernous room. John looked up in shock to see the passed out guard had been shot in the head, summarily executed.

"I did warn him," Moriarty said airily while Sebastian reholstered his gun and took out his phone.

John turned towards the madman who was pacing in front of the cell as if he was then one in a cage, only to see that he had said that for his benefit and was waiting for his reaction. Was it supposed to make him feel better? His jailor hadn't been a nice man, and he'd chosen to work for someone who was clearly criminally insane, so he was never going to break any longevity record. On the other hand, John realized that if he hadn't escaped, the guard wouldn't be dead right now, but he couldn't bring himself to care, in the end, so he shrugged.

Moriarty's eyes sparkled. His stare was unnerving and reminded him of the black, flat eyes of the sharks he had seen on the Discovery Channel, and he hid a shudder crawling down his spine.

"You're not what I expected. I'm starting to understand what Sherlock sees in you. So fierce, determined and resourceful. Just like a well trained dog."

John ignored the obvious taunt while his heart lurched at the sound of Sherlock's name. He wanted to know if he was alright, if he was looking for him, if he had told Moriarty to bugger off, but he was loath to ask the very man who was responsible for this whole situation.

"It is so entertaining to watch him run around at my beck and call, solving my little puzzles, playing the game. He's so desperate. I bet I could make him do anything in exchange for you. I could… Oh, yeeeees... That could be arranged."

That couldn't be good. John didn't know what Moriarty was making Sherlock do, but this… it sounded final. He shivered, unsure whether it was from the cold of the basement or those dark eyes devouring his every reaction.

"You'll come and play too, of course," he purred.

"As if I had a choice. Just bugger off already," John muttered, hoping to put an end to the madman's monologue.

Moriarty chuckled, but Sebastian's eyes narrowed at him. Oh, right. Manners. Fortunately, the big man's attention was redirected towards the arrival of two men who went to work cleaning up the body of his former guard along with the various body fluids that had formed a malodorous puddle around him, so at least they were clean about murdering people. John wasn't sure he could have stomached sharing his prison with a decomposing body.

A brief flash made him squint. He glanced back at Moriarty who was busily typing away on his mobile. He typed just as fast as Sherlock did. No surprise there. He sent his text off with a flourish and locked eyes with him, grinning. John scowled.

"Oh, don't be like that, Johnny. Your incompetent jailor messed up your pretty little face, I might as well make use of it."

"You sent that to Sherlock," John said, trying to reign in his anger.

He had no idea what he looked like, but he doubted it was anything good. The worse part was that he wasn't even hurt, drugged and hungry, but not hurt. However his scuffle with the guard probably made it look like he was, and that would send Sherlock into a fit, it would make him lose his focus and in that state, even Sherlock made mistakes.

John touched his face, a split lip, some blood, a bruise starting to form on his right eye and cheekbone. It didn't hurt if he left it well enough alone.

"Oh, yes. I hope that gets him talking. I always have to threaten him to get him to answer my texts," he said with a pout, as if he could be hurt by Sherlock's silent treatment, hurt that his arch-nemesis refused to… what? Banter and giggle over their shared genius and madness. Because Sherlock was mad too, in his own civilized way, whereas Moriarty was of the lock-him-up-and-throw-away-the-key sort of mad.

John decided to once more ignore Moriarty. His captor was talking at him more than with him anyway. Besides, he was now nursing a secret hope that Sherlock would be able to deduce where he was kept from that picture. It wouldn't be a first, but Moriarty was clever too... surely he hadn't sent Sherlock anything that could be useful.

Moriarty's phone pinged and he stared at it for a moment. Was it Sherlock? It almost felt like he could reach him, which was a stupid thought.

"Well, that's not good," Moriarty said with a frown.

John could perfectly imagine the string of profanities Sherlock could have typed in the small amount of time it had taken him to answer, and he smirked. No, Sherlock was not broken.

Sebastian approached and whispered something in Moriarty's ear, who nodded and flashed John his most insincere smile.

"See. You. Later," he said in what John supposed was meant to be a flirty tone, slowly detaching each syllable.

John cringed, feeling the madman might just blow him a kiss, but he only winked. It was still cringe-worthy and John glowered back, tracking the men's exit through the dark hole.

ooo

There was nothing to be done after Moriarty's departure: no way to pick the locks; his new guard wouldn't even look at him, let alone speak to him but he did throw more than enough food his way, some drugged, some not. It was a bit of a lottery and John cursed whenever he woke up groggy and with a headache. It felt like he had been in this cell forever, but it might only be four...five days? Which only made matters worse. He might just become crazy if he was kept here any longer.

Moriarty had left only two days ago. Of that, he was almost certain.

"Hey, Billy!" John called. "You wouldn't happen to have a newspaper lying about?"

He had taken to calling his jailor Billy, after Sherlock's skull "friend", and talked to him at random through the gaping black hole or whenever he came to toss a sandwich at him, because he was very bored. This was probably the most boring kidnapping in the history of kidnappings.

Billy never answered and even glared at him whenever John called him Billy to his face and dared chat with him as if he wasn't holding a gun to his face. But it was a non-lethal gun. How did he expect to be taken seriously with a dart-gun?

As usual, John got no answer from the gaping black hole. He hadn't really expected one, but it was nice to hear a voice from time to time, even if it was just his own.

ooo

As soon as John saw Sherlock, he knew he was dreaming. He also knew he shouldn't be happy about it because it meant Sherlock was about to die, but he was so relieved that his Dreams were still there, that he finally saw something other than his small gloomy cell, and that he could contemplate Sherlock's beautiful face, that the dread did not come at first.

It did, eventually.

Sherlock had just walked into an inside swimming pool, looking tired and thinner than usual, but with a determined expression. It had to be night since the place was empty and the light minimal. Sherlock stopped next to the pool, looked up wearily at the dark gallery surrounding the pool and then turned once on himself, scanning the area, as if he was looking for someone.

.Please tell me you didn't willingly walk into a trap, Sherlock. Please tell me you're not as stupid as me.

His pleas went unanswered when Sherlock held up a small object.

"I played your games, I got what you wanted. Now give me John back," he said angrily, the empty pool echoing his words.

A door creaked open and Sherlock whirled around, looking straight at him, or rather through him, he suspected so John turned around, only to see himself bundled in a bulky coat he didn't recognize and looking the worse for wear.

"Evening," dream-John said

And wasn't that the most inane thing to say after having been separated from Sherlock for so long.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" dream-John continued, and John wondered for a second if he had been brain-washed in between now and the time this Dream happened, or maybe just really lost his mind.

Sherlock took a step forward and dream-John took a step back, a flash of panic crossing his face before he stilled.

"John," he said softly, almost plaintively.

"Bet you never saw this coming," dream-John said, his voice wavering at the end.

"Cut the crap out!" Sherlock shouted. "I know you stole his voice, Moriarty. Show yourself!"

Dream-John shoulders sagged in relief for a moment before his spine went ramrod straight again as he started opening his jacket, showing the bomb that had been strapped around his chest with enough explosives to take out the whole building. Now, how was he supposed to stop that? As if the situation wasn't dire enough, a red dot appeared, hovering on the bomb, near his heart. Dream-John took another step back from Sherlock, trying to put distance between them.

"You don't make the decisions around here, Sherlock," dream-John parroted.

"But I do!" a cheery voice announced giddily, its owner appearing through another door, looking out of place in the swimming pool with his immaculate suit.

Both Johns looked wearily at the madman while Sherlock looked on with first a confused expression and then something akin to shock. John realized this was his first proper look at Moriarty, since describing him from his dreams could only give Sherlock a very abstract image of his arch-nemesis, but that didn't account for his dismay.

"You're Jim, from I.T." Sherlock said cryptically, glaring at the man.

Who the hell is Jim from I.T.?

"Very good, Sherlock. I wasn't even sure you'd seen me there for a while. I gave you my number and you never called," he replied with his mock-pout, his bottom lip jutting out like a kid who'd been denied a treat. "Did I really make such a fleeting impression?"

"I wouldn't have called even if you hadn't," Sherlock said levelly.

"Ah, yes. You already have John. Or rather, you had. You shouldn't be so careless with your possessions."

"John is not a possession."

"And yet, I have him, and you came here to barter for him," Moriarty pointed out.

So he had come here of his own free will, knowing he'd be facing the criminally insane Moriarty who had already caused his death at least once before… in a Dream, but it still counted. What was the point? John was supposed to protect Sherlock, not the other way around.

Sherlock glanced at him worriedly. Idiot, dream-John seemed to be trying to convey through a look.

"The plans," Sherlock said, holding out that small object again… a memory stick?

"Boring. I could have got them anywhere," Moriarty replied, snatching the memory stick and tossing it into the pool without a second thought.

"I thought that was the whole point of this little game of yours, having me run around everywhere, solving your little puzzles, showing me what you can do. You specialize in… solving problems. Yes, that's it. A consulting criminal. Clever."

Both Johns rolled their eyes. Really, Sherlock? Complimenting the enemy is definitely not good. But Moriarty grinned at the praise.

"Isn't it? I don't get my hands dirty, no one ever gets to me., no one ever will."

"I did," Sherlock said smugly.

"Yes, and that's the problem, right there. I can't keep having you meddle in my affairs. It's bad for business."

"Why not just take me out, then? Why this game?"

"Because it's fuuuuun," Moriarty sing songed, the edge of madness returning. "Because I can. But believe me, I have tried to have you assassinated before, both by amateurs and professionals, and you always evaded death at the last minute. It was quite infuriating. It still is, actually, since I can't quite figure it out, but it has something to do with Johnny boy here, I suspect, which is one of the reasons I held onto him. What good can he do when he's under my control? And now I have you both at my mercy."

"I guess you win this round," Sherlock said dismissively before turning to dream-John. "The Dreamer is here, isn't he? I saw you trying to pinpoint him."

John did do that, it was true, but he'd never told Sherlock since he knew how foolish it was. He had just wanted to… experiment,. If he'd done so at the pool, it was probably out of habit. But Sherlock noticed everything. John should have known it was useless trying to hide something from him. Dream-John nodded and gestured vaguely towards where dreaming-John was, just a few feet to their left. Dreaming-John received dream-Sherlock's full attention. It was unnerving because he was looking in the right direction, almost directly into his eyes, and yet he clearly couldn't see him.

"Then we still have a chance," he concluded, although John wasn't convinced. They had never tried something of the sort before. It felt like future-John and future-Sherlock were communicating with him, rather than mere dream images without any real consistency. It made them too real. Maybe they were, right this moment, although they wouldn't be once John woke up and tried his best to change that future from ever happening. What if he wasn't so much dreaming as waking in the future.

"What are you two blabbering on about? Who is the Dreamer?" Moriarty demanded, approaching their position and staring at the same empty space Sherlock was. It creeped dreaming-John out. For the first time in one of his dreams, he felt exposed, vulnerable. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

Dream-John took the opportunity of Moriarty being so close to jump on his back - dammit, he'd never realized he was that short - and Sherlock materialized a gun -his gun- out of nowhere, pointing it at Moriarty's head.

"Leave, Sherlock," Dream-John pleaded. "Run!"

"You know I can't. You'll stop this from happening."

"What if I tried already and failed? What if this is it?"

"I'm not leaving."

"You're such a stubborn git."

The red dot that had been pointed at John now migrated towards Sherlock's head, right in the middle of his forehead.

"Oh, isn't that sweet? But you've rather shown your hand there. I suspected Johnny boy was special, and now, I know. Kill the spare," he ordered and Sherlock's head exploded in a spray of red and gore before they could do anything else.