Moriarty told John to leave his phone and gun on the restaurant's table. John was glad he'd had the forethought of switching his phone off, or this meeting would have turned into a shooting massacre worthy of O.K. Corral once Mycroft had located him and sent his troops in. John didn't mind so much leaving his phone behind as he did his gun. It had been very hard to resist not shooting Moriarty right in his smug, pointy little face when he had the familiar weight of his Sig snuggly in hand, his fingers curled around the grip and his index so close to the trigger. It was so very tempting, he was sure Moriarty saw it all, could read it on his face, plain as day. The madman probably got a kick out of it, a thrill that made him not so bored, even if just for a few seconds.

John could just end it here. He didn't mind so much the guns aimed at him as he did those aimed at the restaurant's staff. Gain and loss… Would it be worth it? The sacrifice of a cook, a busboy and the two waitresses? He met Grace's teary eyes as she bravely tried not to cringe away from the barrel pressed against her temple and knew he couldn't do it, no matter how logical it would seem to someone like Mycroft who could sacrifice pawns for the greater good without batting an eye.

John slowly put his gun down next to his phone and pushed both of them towards Moriarty, like a beaten general presenting his sword to his victorious enemy. There was just no winning against someone who had absolutely no scruples or morals.

"I'm sure Gracie will make sure your little friends at the Yard get these. As a souvenir," he said with a smile and to John's bewilderment, the man left a few notes on the table to pay for his meal. "Shall we?"

John reluctantly got up from his chair and inwardly cringed when Moriarty put his hand at the small of his back to hurry him along. John glanced one last time at the scene behind him. Moriarty's men seemed in no hurry to leave, apparently staying long enough for their boss to be safely away before releasing the hostages who would waste no time in calling the police. He could only hope they all made it out safe and sound now.

ooo

The place Moriarty took him to was rather nice. Not comfortable and cosy like the flat he shared with Sherlock and which had felt like home ever since he'd moved in, but modern and unnaturally clean like those glossy pictures he'd seen on interior design magazines in newspaper stands, with too much white everywhere and large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city. It was a sight better than the warehouse cell he'd been locked in the last time around. This was feeling less and less like a kidnapping, and more like a mandatory invitation. Moriarty was even being more or less pleasant, but John always expected him to blow up any moment at the slightest provocation, so he was weary and cautious around him in his efforts not to set him off.

Moriarty was looking at him right now, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet as if he was expecting something.

"Erm...nice place?" John tried and was rewarded with a smile.

"Glad you think so. You'll be staying here for the time being. I have business to attend to right now. I would have cleared my schedule if I had know you were so eager to arrive, so you'll have to forgive me for my absence. I'll be back later in the day though. Toodles!"

And with that, the madman was gone, the door slamming behind him. John gave himself a minute to relax. He'd been so tense in Moriarty's presence, his shoulder was killing him and his heart rate was still pounding against his ribcage, demanding something to do with all the adrenaline flowing through his body. Then John peered around, surprised he'd just been left like that and half-expected some henchmen to step out of the walls, but no, he was truly alone. He walked over to the front door, turned the knob… locked. Predictable. He could always break the door open, or pick its lock, but then what? Go back to Baker Street and wait for someone's corpse to be dropped off on his front porch?

No.

He'd give almost anything to be back home with Sherlock, but not that. This was all a test, John realized. Moriarty knew he could pick locks but he'd locked the door anyway. John took a few steps back into the main room. But how could Moriarty know if he picked the locks and left the flat for the duration of his absence? He'd said he wouldn't be back before the end of the day.

He could have lied. Maybe he was still behind the door, waiting to burst in at any minute with some barmy jibe like "Honey, I'm home!". It would be just his style, too. But surely a consulting criminal had better things to do with his time.

John turned on himself, inspecting the room and was surprised he found no cameras pointed at him. That had seemed like the most likely solution. Or was that too obvious? Did he use those tiny high-tech cameras Mycroft had planted in their flat. Sherlock had found them all in a matter of minutes but John wasn't sure where to look, so he dawdled around the room, looking up, down, in the shelves full of decorative knick knacks, at the telly...stopping at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. It was obnoxiously big and had pieces of metal sticking every which way and crystals dangling from it… really not his style, but there was a piece that seemed out of place. He wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been specifically looking for it too. John pushed a chair under the chandelier to pull it off and turned the object in his hands. It did look like one of those Sherlock had drowned in acid, so… this whole place was probably bugged inside and out. He was about to go in search for the rest of them when there was a knock on the door.

His brain failed to catch up with the notion that someone was knocking on the door to what was essentially his prison, so it took him awhile before he answered.

"Err… Come in?"

Sebastian Moran stepped in, phone in hand, and seemed momentarily taken aback at seeing him there but schooled his features quickly enough.

"Again?" he asked, sounding slightly amused. "When Jim said we had a guest, I didn't expect to see you of all people."

John shrugged.

"He can be rather persuasive, can't he?" Moran continued.

"You can say that," John muttered, unnerved by the man being so chatty.

Maybe it was the guest versus prisoner status that made the difference for him. Moran took a step forward so John reflexively took a step back, his fist coming up. Moran stopped and extended his hand while holding the other up.

"I'm not going to hurt you. You're a guest, remember? Just give me that camera. Jim asked me to put it back where it belongs."

"Is the whole flat bugged then?" John asked, throwing the camera over to the other man.

Sebastian hummed as he fixed the device back to the chandelier, without the help of the chair. If that was an affirmative, that meant John couldn't even take a piss or shower in peace. He'd just have to flush those cameras down the loo so they couldn't be put back. He hoped they were expensive.

"Need anything while I'm here?" Moran asked once he had finished.

"A little freedom would be nice."

Moran chuckled and left again, cautioning him against trying to leave. With nothing else to do, John explored the place. The main room was just a living room with a very comfortable couch and a working television. At least he wouldn't be completely cut off from the world. There was the kitchen, fully equipped and stocked. It even had beer and a distinct lack of severed heads, which was a bit of a letdown coming from Moriarty. There was also a notable absence of knives. John couldn't imagine using the dull-edged butter knives to attack Moriarty. He doubted he'd even manage to graze him, let alone cause any sort of flesh wound. He'd have better luck trying to strangle him. And even that would only be possible if Moriarty was stupid enough to come back alone that evening.

The room opposite the kitchen was a large bedroom with a bed so wide, John wondered if he'd have to share it with Snow White and her whole bloody team of dwarfs. The dresser and cupboards had been filled with clothes, all his size, he realized after a quick look-through, even the underwear… John slammed the bedroom door shut and checked out the bathroom before returning to the living room and falling face first into the couch. Was this his life now? A pretty, gilded cage?

John's eyes blinked open some time later. He must have fallen asleep after all the excitement of that morning because his face was now glued with drool to the couch's white leather. His first thought was for Sherlock, it didn't feel right being so close, yet so far apart. He couldn't let himself get all maudlin this early on though, so he sat up properly and searched for a clock, then reflexively searched for his phone and cursed when he could find neither. He turned the telly on because he knew the news channel always displayed the time. There, right at the bottom left corner of Sky News: 13:27, right next to an unflattering picture of himself.

John's mouth fell open as he stared at the image. It was pixelated and blurry, taken in a hurry at the restaurant judging from what he was wearing and the setting. Had one of the hostages really had nothing better to do than take a picture of him while being held at gunpoint by an average of 3.5 thugs? The off voice of the news report was talking about a hostage situation and showed a brief interview of a young man he recognized as the busboy. He was probably the culprit of the stolen snapshot, then. Jeez, young people these days had a skewed sense of priorities. So far, the news got the story straight at least, a rare feat in itself, but then they started making parallels between him and the bombing, given they bore the same name. It was true, technically, there was a link between the two events, but it was not something he had thought would come up. Mycroft had probably arrived too late to smother all the media circus that was brewing.

John's stomach growled. He should probably eat, keep his strength up in case Moriarty went full crazy and decided to starve him for fun, or just in case Sherlock needed him to intervene because of a Dream. John half-heartedly rummaged around in the fridge and found a ready-made meal from Tesco he only had to microwave: chicken tikka masala with rice. It didn't sound too bad but it didn't smell all that appetising once it was warmed over. When he came back, the news anchor had dug up his past in Afghanistan as a military and John was now apparently a bitter terrorist who had bombed the financial tower bearing his name, either because of the way the government treated veterans of the war or because he had somehow joined the Talibans' cause. They didn't seem sure themselves and were contradicting themselves more often than not, the idiots, and what the actual fuck? They had no grounds whatsoever to base any of this off, just his presence in Afghanistan, where he took a bullet for his Queen and country, thank you very much. Oh… and the gun. Bloody blabbering busboy had to mention that, didn't he?

John had always hated the tabloid tendencies of the press and media in general, but this was plain slander. Did they just hope he'd be killed and never sue them for libel?

Wankers. Vultures.

John turned the telly off and threw the remote at the window behind it. He felt only marginally better when the back popped open and the batteries fell out, messing up the spotless place just a little, making it not so very perfect. John had seen enough of the so called news to know he had no interest in watching the telly anytime soon anyway. He abandoned his meal too. The sauce had already began to congeal and it looked less and less appetizing by the second.

John paced around the room but it had never felt as small as it did right now. He looked out of the window at the city sprawled in front of him, but it only made him angry that people could think he, of all people, was one of the bad guys. A terrorist! Really, that was a low blow. He wondered if Moriarty had planned all of this, of smearing his reputation, but even he, as much of a genius as he was, couldn't have predicted that level of stupidity from the media.

Or maybe he'd paid them off to spout that nonsense? Or threatened them into it? He had both those means at his disposal. But… surely, he hadn't had the time? Or was he just than many steps ahead of everyone?

Mycroft had better clean up this mess. This was all his fault in the end. John should never have trusted him and accepted to talk to Moriarty, and he should never have trusted him to keep the consulting criminal locked up.

And what was Sherlock thinking of it all? Probably nothing, he was always saying to let people talk, after all. Maybe he was right about that as he was right about mostly everything. God, he missed him so much already. How was he supposed to stay without him? The still very vivid image of Grace's tearful face chased away that of Sherlock and his look of contentment that morning. He had to because he had no choice. A painful knot formed in his chest, his mind and his heart pulling in different directions. He'd have to live with the decisions he made.

John spun around the room again and cursed. There was nothing to do here! Nothing to vent his anger on, or just change his mind. There wasn't a single book to be found, or even an old newspaper so he could do the crosswords. It was a prison after all, albeit a comfortable one, and all the company he had were his conflicting thoughts.

John decided for a shower in the end. He still reeked of sex from that morning and hunting down the hypothetical camera in the bathroom would keep him busy for a while.

ooo

John woke with a start, fighting off the feeling of vertigo he got from the London streets lit below him. After his shower, bored out of his mind, he had pushed the couch closer to the window to do some people watching. It wasn't as fascinating without Sherlock next to him to whisper their dirty secrets into his ear, and he must have fallen asleep again. That was what was most annoying with captivity, being so bored you dozed off all the time.

He would have turned on the telly to check the time, but he didn't want to see what the journalists were saying about him now. He might find out he was a serial killer who had stolen the crown jewels now. But he judged it was probably very early morning, around four, since his yet-to-be-shaped Dream had visited him. He usually slept through till morning though, so something must have woken him up. Not feeling the least bit sleepy anymore, John inspected the flat and found a note stuck to the fridge.

Sorry I couldn't come by sooner.

I watched you sleep.

xo

J.

John shuddered and crumpled the note, throwing it in the trash. Now he knew what had woken him: the presence of the devil watching over his sleep. He knew Sherlock did it too, but at least he had the boyfriend status and he didn't brag about it the next morning.

Tea. He needed tea...

And then, the day dragged on… just like yesterday. Hours and hours with nothing to do. When he couldn't take it anymore, John grudgingly put the remote control back together and switched the telly on. He could just watch whatever drama or reality shows were programmed in the middle of the afternoon, but he found himself leaving it on the news channel after he'd switched it on. It was half past five, later than he thought, and he wondered if his host/captor would be visiting today.

John was glad to see he wasn't top news anymore. Apparently, a prominent member of the House of Lords had been caught on tape engaging in kinky, highly reprehensible activities with a couple of prostitutes. Bad luck for him, good timing for John though. There was still some talk about the bombing but it had quickly lost interest next to the high-profile sex and political scandal, especially since there had been no victims. John was just mentioned in passing as someone of interest to Scotland Yard. Did that mean he was a fugitive now? Ha! Good thing the country's criminal mastermind was hiding him then. John's chuckle died as soon as it had formed, it was a whole lot less funny with no one there to share the irony. God but he missed Sherlock and it had not even been two whole days yet. How long was this going to keep this up? Why was Moriarty even bothering? He hadn't seen hide nor hair of the man since he had dropped him off into what he'd taken to calling the limbo: everything too white, too empty, too lonely…

John closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock. Where was he right now? What was he doing? He hoped he wasn't running himself ragged again looking for him. Maybe he should have left him a note, telling him what he had to do, why he had to leave…

"Thinking of me?" a voice whispered in his ear.

John jumped about a mile off the sofa and toppled over to the other side, lying on the ground. Instinct. He'd taken cover and was grappling around in search of his gun, panting hard, before he regained his senses. What kind of idiot did that to someone who suffered from PTSD?

The deranged kind, that's who.

John glared at Moriarty who had walked around the sofa to face him with a contrite expression while John tried to get his breathing and shaking hands back under control.

"PTSD. Slipped my mind, silly me," Moriarty said and kneeled down in front of John. "Here, put your head between your knees," he ordered, moving John's limbs about like a doll's.

"I'm a doctor, thanks. I know what to do," he growled but complied easily enough.

He was too nauseated to not do it just out of spite and he had to concentrate on not hyperventilating. Fuck, this was humiliating. He could deal with anything as long as he saw it coming. What was Moriarty playing at, sneaking in the flat and prowling up to him to scare the living daylights out of him? John stiffened when he felt the other man's hand grasp his but he was only encouraging him to shake his arm to help get the blood circulating to his extremities again. John would have to walk around for a while too after that or his leg would stiffen up again, and he had no wish to see the return of the limp. Humiliating wouldn't start to cover that development.

John opened his eyes and pushed off the floor once he felt more in control of himself.

"How about a massage? It would help your shoulder," Moriarty said.

"No. No way. I still hate you. That," John said pointing at the floor where he'd been sitting. "Was all your fault. Actually, hate is not strong enough. I despise you. You," he articulated slowly, poking Moriarty's suit-clad chest. "Repel. Me."

John glared into those dark eyes. There was so much emotion there: amusement, fascination, but anger too. John took two quick steps back, almost tripping on his own feet. It was a very bad idea poking an angry psychopath and he'd literally done just that. He may not live long enough to regret it. John stared at Moriarty who stared back, and then laughed, or giggled. It was rather high-pitched, but just as chilling as the rest of his personality.

"Oh, John. You never cease to amaze me," he said taking a step closer while John fought every instinct not to bolt and lock himself in the bathroom. "I'm never bored with you. It's a shame you hate me so. And here I'd brought you a present."

John frowned at him. He could just imagine the sort of present Moriarty thought was appropriate. What could possibly trump the nauseating bouquet of roses, creepy love notes and the bombing? John had to admit he was curious, he just had to ask. Call it morbid curiosity. And boredom.

"What is it?"

Moriarty smiled and dangled a phone in front of him.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not so, Johnny boy. Mind you, I'm not giving you the phone. Not until I know I can trust you with it. But I'll let you call Sherlock, for five minutes. The only condition is that you don't tell him where you are. Fair?" Moriarty asked, parroting John's proposition from what seemed like a lifetime ago, down in Mycroft's secret prison for supervillains.

John nodded eagerly. Sherlock! He could call Sherlock! He'd get a chance to hear his voice, explain why he'd left, apologize… Moriarty dangled the phone closer before snatching it back again.

"Say it, John. Say you promise not to tell where you are."

John rolled his eyes.

"I promise."

"Jim," Moriarty added, the phone an inch away from his own hand. "Say my name, John, and the phone is yours."

"Fine! Jim, there, I said it. Now give me the bloody phone."

Moriarty grinned and put the phone in John's hand, closing his fingers around it, before sauntering off to sit on the couch, looking perfectly at home. John had no time to dwell on it though. He had the means to talk to Sherlock right in the palm of his hand. He glanced at Moriarty and hurried off into the kitchen. The phone was a very basic one and only had one contact saved into it: Sherlock.

With a shaking finger, John pressed the call button and waited, holding his breath.

"Who is this?" came Sherlock's voice, tightly controlled, picking up on the first ring.

"Sherlock? It's me... John." That was probably unnecessary. He half-expected Sherlock to retort 'redundant' but there was only silence on the other end of the line.

"Sherlock?"

"Where are you?" he demanded. "I'll come and get you right now."

"No. I… I can't tell you. But I'm fine. Don't try looking for me, Sherlock. I just wanted to tell you not to worry."

"Not...worry?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "John, you're in the hands of a murderous maniac."

"Do you think I don't know that? I'm doing what I have to do so everyone stays safe."

John heard someone in the background. Greg? And then Sherlock huffed, yelled for everyone to shut up.

"You can't save everyone."

"I can try."

"You're not being reasonable. We can find another solution."

This time, it was John's turn to huff in annoyance.

"Really? Do you have another solution? Right this instant?"

"Well...no."

"Then I have to stay. I'm sorry to do this to you, I really am, but I won't have people dying because of me. And I know you're safe for now, Sherlock."

John was reluctant to say more in case he was being eavesdropped on by the Yard, but knew Sherlock would understand he was talking about his Dreams, or lack thereof. His time was almost up anyway, he could hear Moriarty's light footsteps approaching.

"I have to go, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I-"

"No! Don't. John-"

And that was it. Moriarty plucked the phone out of his hand and ended the call. Too soon. John had a lot more to tell Sherlock, he hadn't even been able to tell him how much he missed him, or that he loved him. John considered wrestling the thing back from Moriarty. It wouldn't be difficult, he was of a height with him, but John was much more muscular than the slight Irishman. He should be able to overpower him easily enough. It didn't look like he was even carrying a weapon, and he was here, alone, with him. He could end him and escape, and there would be no carved up bodies left on his doorstep as retribution.

In an instant, John lunged himself at Moriarty, landing the both of them in the living room. He pinned Moriarty to the carpeted floor by straddling his hips and his fingers curled around his pale neck, ready to squeeze the life out of him when the madman started laughing. Laughing! Not the reaction he'd expected. Moriarty wasn't even trying to fight him off.

"What?! What in the fuck is so funny?" John demanded, digging his fingers into his exposed throat to make his point across.

"You... Johnny boy," Moriarty gasped. "You. Did you… really think... it would be... this easy?"

John frowned thinking on what he could have possibly missed, but Moriarty chose that moment to wiggle beneath him and moan, clearly not in pain. Aroused. John scrambled back until he hit the wall, watching as the other man sat up to look at him in the eye.

"Sebastian is sitting outside that door," Moriarty said and pointed at the front door. "Ready to shoot anyone who comes out who isn't me. He's very loyal, and very ruthless. Believe me when I say you don't want him to exact revenge for my death. He'd kill everyone you ever so much as talked to, very slowly, very painfully, and make you watch. We don't want any of that, do we?"

John shook his head, blanching. He had no doubt Moriarty was telling the truth. He'd already seen proof of Moran's character before, and it explained why Moriarty had so carelessly came in alone and unarmed. John should have known better. Sherlock would have known. He was an idiot for even trying.

Moriarty stood up, smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit and took the two steps separating them, leaning over to pat John's bowed head.

"Good boy," he said and left, taking all and any hope away with him.