John didn't see anyone for twelve full days after the incident with Moriarty. He should probably feel relieved to have been left alone, but at this point, John would take Moriarty's insanity over the stifling loneliness without hesitation. He'd been locked up for two weeks now and had had about ten minutes of human interaction during all that time, if you counted Moriarty and Moran as human, that is.

John wasn't like Sherlock. He couldn't lock himself up in his head for days on end, not needing to talk to anyone, not feeling the weight of the isolation from the rest of the world pressing around him, stifling him, until he thought the loneliness would choke him… He'd never been this isolated, not even after his return from Afghanistan.

Weak. You're weak.

He thought he might even prefer his previous cell down in the warehouse. At least there was the constant struggle with the guards, and the possibility of escape giving him some sense of purpose. He'd felt more alive then than he did in this limbo. The effect was only felt more strongly because he was here voluntarily, sort of. Was it possible to die of boredom, or loneliness? He would have to ask Sherlock when he saw him again. If he saw him again.

John snuggled against his blue cardigan, the one he'd been wearing the morning he sought out Moriarty, the one Sherlock had offered him in compensation for the one he'd drowned in acid. The others clothes he'd worn that day had been washed and returned by the mysterious fairies who stocked his fridge and vanished his dirty laundry before it was returned without him ever seeing them. He suspected they came in the middle of the night when he Dreamed of incomprehensible swirls of colour or surely he would have been awoken by the intruders.

What annoyed John was that those clothes didn't smell of home anymore, only of a strong, unfamiliar detergent. But he'd kept his jumper safe: sealed it in a bag and hidden it in the bedroom so the familiar smells of his home and his Sherlock still clung to the fabric. Sometimes, when he felt really down, he took it out and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes and imagining he was back in Baker Street, snuggling against Sherlock. But it never lasted and the bitter solitude flooded him again.

John hated himself when he heard the front door open, a sound he thought he might never hear again, and he sat up straighter in the couch, his head swiveling expectantly towards the entrance.

Like a well trained dog. Weak. Pathetic.

"Johnny boy!" Moriarty called cheerfully as if he hadn't been ignoring him for so long, after all the trouble he went to to get him there in the first place.

John had honestly thought he'd been forgotten, and he found himself watching Moriarty attentively as he strolled over to the couch and sat next to him, as if it was the most fascinating spectacle he'd ever seen. It was, in a way. John had gotten so used to the white walls, white furniture and white nothingness of the flat that Moriarty, in all his creepy darkness -and blood red tie- looked completely alien. John wasn't even mad at hearing the ridiculous nickname for once because he got to hear a human voice addressing him again. The telly was a poor substitute for company and it had gotten on his nerves after the first week, so he'd sort of broken it in a fit of anger.

"I hope you calmed down since my last visit. I really can't afford to appear in public with those beautiful bruises you gave me, John" Moriarty said, pulling his collar down to show what were clearly the shape of John's fingertips, bruised into the pale skin of his throat, now a mottled yellowish colour.

John thought he should be proud of having inflicted that to Moriarty, he deserved much worse, but it only made him feel slightly sick, stirred up memories he'd rather forget.

"It sends the wrong message, you see. The rabble remember I'm only human and can be hurt. It's made work soooo tedious."

John said nothing. Partly because he'd just gotten so used to not talk, and partly because he knew being a smart mouth right now wouldn't gain him anything. Moriarty had offered him the use of a phone the last time, if he could be trusted, but John had attacked him instead, proving he wasn't, and he'd lost the one link he could have had with Sherlock, and been so isolated afterwards that he thought he'd go mad.

"I shouldn't have left you alone for so long. I'm sorry, I can see it doesn't do you any good," Moriarty continued when John failed to say anything.

John's eye grew wide at that. Had Moriarty seriously just apologized to him? He just… didn't seem the type to bother. Did he apologize to the other people he killed, blackmailed, kidnapped, stole from and God only knows what else, too? John snorted. Unlikely.

"Good, you're still in there," Moriarty said. "Tell me, can I get you anything to make your stay more bearable?"

John thought about it. He had immediately wanted to ask for the phone back, but he doubted that would be an option, not after what he'd done. He could feel this was another test, a game for Moriarty, toying with him again. If he asked for too much, he probably wouldn't get anything at all, so he had to find just the right item. Something Moriarty couldn't refuse. His laptop was out of the question, of course. It would be too easy to contact Sherlock if he had access internet. What he really needed was something to pass the time, to get his mind off things.

"Books. Lots and lots of books," John said, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

Moriarty smiled and nodded like a magnanimous God granting a mortal his wish.

"This place is rather incomplete without a proper library, but it was never really meant for long stays. I'll have that taken care of the next time I come."

"Thank you," John replied without thinking, letting go of the breath he'd been holding and then slapping both his hands on his mouth, blushing. What was he thinking. Thanking his jailor? Seriously, what was wrong with him?

He's messing with your head. Don't talk to him. Ignore him.

His inner voice was sounding more and more like Sherlock, but Moriarty was only smiling at him like Christmas had come early. But not mocking him, not rubbing it in his face as he would have expected.

"How have you been sleeping? No bad Dreams?" he asked.

John shook his head. Sherlock was safe.

"That's good. You know I'm holding my end of the bargain that way, right?"

John nodded, not understanding what Moriarty wanted from him. He did want to ask after Sherlock, but didn't think that was a wise move at this point. Couldn't risk the books. So he was surprised when it was Moriarty who offered to fill him in of his own accord and John drank in every word: Sherlock was working on a case with DI Lestrade after the man had begged him for two days straight but he was still looking for John on the side, not that he was getting any closer, even with his brother's help; their old landlady was making sure he ate everyday and-

"Yes?" John prompted.

Moriarty made a face and dismissed him with a wave of his hand, suddenly taking his leave. John wanted to know what he was hiding from him. Because he was, there was no denying it. There was something about Sherlock he was not saying, something he found… distasteful? But it was hard to tell what that would be for someone like Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock had taken up charity work, or adopted a puppy, or taken up knitting with Mrs Hudson? He had no idea but it worried him. He might be injured, nothing life-threatening, obviously, or he would know, but-

"I'll be back soon," Moriarty said, cutting through his thoughts.

"Soon?" John asked, following him to the door, because he really wanted those books in short order, and having company, even his, had been… nice. Moriarty had actually been pleasant now that he thought about it, which was both unexpected and worrying.

"Very soon," the other man replied with a grin and pecked him lightly on the lips before shutting the door in his face.

Fuck.

John stood there like an idiot for much too long, staring at the closed door, trying and failing every time to understand what had just happened.

Why? Just… why?

John had tried to kill him just a few days ago, for crying out loud! So why would he kiss him?

Isn't that why he wanted you here in the first place?

It was. John should have seen this coming, but since he'd been mostly ignored by Moriarty, he had concluded he'd imagined it all and that Moriarty had only 'courted' him to anger Sherlock, or just because it amused him to see them squirm. John brightened up. Maybe that was it: Moriarty was just messing up with his mind again, trying to get a rise out of him. But whatever the case may be, he'd be keeping his distance from now on.

ooo

Moriarty visited early the next day while John was washing up the dishes he'd used that morning. He hated that he felt relieved at seeing him so soon. That wasn't normal.

Don't feel bad. Right now, you'd even be glad to see your drunk dad about to beat the shit out of you.

Nevertheless, John kept a safe distance from him, even as he spotted the two books Moriarty had tucked under his arm. He tried to glimpse the titles, hoping it wasn't something he'd read already, so starved was he for entertainment, but everytime Moriarty tried to approach him, John would shuffle away.

"I'm not going to eat you, John. Do stop fidgeting so I can give you those books you asked for."

John narrowed his eyes at him. He could just make out the warning under his light tone.

I'm not going to eat you...yet. Stop fleeing or say good-bye to the books.

Or was he just imagining that too? However, John wasn't going to cower. He'd faced worse, so he squared his shoulders and walked up to Moriarty, extending his hand for the books: one detective novel he'd never heard of but which made him smile because the character on the front cover was wearing the most ridiculous deerstalker hat; the second book was titled Visions and Premonitions Through the Ages and looked surprisingly serious given the subject. John couldn't help but be surprised at the choice in literature: it was very thoughtful and he knew he'd actually enjoy reading both books.

"Thanks," he said, because he wanted more books like those in the future.

"I knew you'd like those."

"If you know me so well, then why in heaven's name did you send me flowers and those godawful notes?"

"Oh, those?" Moriarty asked, grinning toothily. "Yes, those were just to piss off Sherlock. Did it work?"

"Well… not really, actually," John admitted, frowning.

In fact, Sherlock had seemed more interested in decoding the bouquet with his florio-thingy than getting rid of it, and John wasn't even sure he knew about the notes. John hadn't bothered mentioning them, but Sherlock rarely missed anything. Strange. Moriarty pouted at the admission, probably annoyed that one of his evil plans had not turned out the way he'd expected.

"Here, maybe you should call him. It's been a while," Moriarty said dangling yet another phone in front of John's nose, who tried to catch it. "Nuh-uh! What do you say, Johnny boy?"

John rolled his eyes.

"I promise not to tell Sherlock where I am," John parroted and was subjected to the other man's raised eyebrows. "Jim," he finished lamely, but he'd gladly sink to lower levels to get the chance to talk to Sherlock.

Moriarty handed him the phone but kept his hand on John's, stopping him from retreating to the kitchen.

"Five minutes. And… Don't be too surprised if Sherlock seems a bit preoccupied."

"Preoccupied… How exactly?" John asked.

"He's had guest visiting Baker Street very regularly ever since you left."

"A guest?" Sherlock wouldn't put up with someone he didn't want there. He could probably think of a thousand and one ways to send anyone unwelcome running and screaming within a couple of minutes if he put his mind to it.

"Irene. I did warn you about her. But did you li~sten?"

John scowled. There was no way Sherlock was putting up with that she-devil. He'd never even mentioned her. He yanked his hand away from Moriarty's slack grip and stomped into the kitchen, calling the only number saved into the phone without further delay. His heart beat hard as he listened to the ringing tone. It picked up on the fourth ring this time and he'd almost given up with a heavy heart but it stopped beating altogether when a woman's voice answered. It was definitely not Mrs Hudson's.

"Is Sherlock there?" he managed to get out.

"John? Is that you? It's Irene!" she gushed, confirming what he already knew, and John hated her more than he thought he could ever hate anyone. "How's Moriarty's Bed and Breakfast treating you?"

What the hell was she playing at? Invading his home and answering his boyfriend's mobile?

"Just… get Sherlock on the phone. I don't have time for this nonsense."

"Oh. Grouchy. One moment, he's still sleeping," she said and he could hear the rustle of cloth.

John's blood froze. What… What the hell was that about? Was she in bed with Sherlock? No… there had to be another explanation.

"John?" came Sherlock's voice, slurred by the sleep still clinging to him.

"Sherlock," he breathed into the phone, tearing up at just hearing his voice.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked worriedly, more alert now.

"Yes, fine… just fine. I'm glad to hear your voice, that's all."

"So am I. I was worried not to hear from you for so long. He hasn't hurt you, has he?"

"No. Don't worry. He's been treating me well…" he let hang for a psychopath. No need to anger Moriarty since he was probably eavesdropping from the next room, and no need to worry Sherlock by telling him he'd almost gone insane from his forced isolation either.

"I'm still looking for you, John. Won't you tell me where you are. Please?"

John shook his head, more to convince himself since Sherlock couldn't see him. It was so tempting.

"I can't."

Sherlock sighed.

"We're working on something. I can't tell you what, but I'll find you, John."

"We?"

"Irene and I-"

"Irene," John growled, unable to hold back his building hatred for her any longer. "Irene doesn't do anything for free, Sherlock. What did she ask from you? And why is she there? Why is she even answering your phone?" John demanded, exasperated and more than a little annoyed that the woman had managed to dig her claws into Sherlock once more.

"That's irrelevant, John, and she only wants me to solve a little puzzle. It shouldn't take me more than a minute. I'd hardly call that onerous. Wait… are you jealous?"

"No," John snapped because that was hardly the issue here.

"John-"

"No. Just forget I said anything. And be careful. You're not in any danger that I know of, but we're still not sure of how advanced a warning I can get… I miss you, Sherlock," he added quickly, seeing Moriarty grinning from the doorway. His time was up and the phone was out of his hand before he could hear Sherlock's reply.

John waited, standing awkwardly, his head bowed so Moriarty couldn't see his emotions boiling over. It wouldn't take much to set him off now and he didn't want to lash out at his captor, knowing it would cost him what little privileges he had gained.

"It won't work," Moriarty said out of the blue.

"What?"

"Whatever Sherlock has planned with that traitorous tart. It won't work. With each move he makes, I'm always one step ahead. He can't ever reach you, John, and you won't go to him. You know the truth of it already, and I'm sure Sherlock will soon realize it too. It's over."

ooo

It's over.

Those words plagued John more than he cared to admit and he was sure he'd have nightmares if he was still capable of them. The unwavering certainty when Moriarty had pronounced them had felt like a death sentence and it was, in a way. The abrupt end to his life at Baker Street, to his burgeoning relationship with Sherlock, of his hope for everything to return back to normal one day.

He didn't have nightmares but he was plagued with insomnia instead, and had even been swept unwillingly into the nonsensical swirl of colours of his mandatory Dream on more than one occasion when 3 a.m. came around, which always left him disoriented for hours afterwards, especially now that he had nothing to hang on to.

As a result, John went through books like a hot knife through butter, meaning Moriarty had been visiting more and more often in the last week with new bundles of carefully chosen books under his arm. He'd taken to staying for a chat too, for tea and sometimes appeared with take-away for dinner, going so far as to keep him company late into the night when sleep wouldn't come for either of them. John now understood how Molly could have fallen for his act, for believing he was just a charming, funny bloke, because he truly was… once he left his evil kingpin persona at the door. John found himself reluctantly enjoying his company and had to keep reminding himself that he was the enemy, that this was all his fault. True to himself, Moriarty would explode into a mad rage from time to time, but it was rarely directed at him.

Except for the time he found John's blue sweater, just as he was about to leave for the night. John had become careless the more he got used to being around Moriarty and the other man hadn't been pleased. At all. John didn't know how the man knew what it represented to him, but Moriarty took a savage pleasure out of ripping the sweater in two and it might as well have been his heart. Then, Moriarty cornered John against a wall and gripped his chin painfully to force him to look into his dark eyes, his face so close he could feel his breath ghosting his skin. He looked completely insane and John felt a tremor of fear run through him as he tried not to struggle against him to get free.

"And here I thought we'd been doing so well," Moriarty rumbled, his accent heavy, then as if a switch had been flipped, his anger evaporated and he pouted. "I'm sooo disappointed."

Moriarty let go of his hold and took a step back to look at him critically. John recognized that look. It was the one he had given wounded soldiers on the battlefield before making snap decision about what to fix and what couldn't be fixed, no matter how hard he tried. That look scared him more than anything else, more so because he had no idea what Moriarty thought needed fixing, and how he went about fixing people, but John doubted it was anything pleasant. John might have to fight for his life after all, and he knew, deep down, that he shouldn't feel so happy at the prospect, that there was something seriously wrong with him.

But before any sort of confrontation could take place between the two, John stumbled on his feet, barely catching himself against the wall, and blinked, a look of horror slowly dawning on his face while Moriarty looked at him curiously, his head cocked to the side. It was very late, well into the night, and the Dream was upon him. Whether it was a real vision this time or just the usual patchwork of colours, John didn't know, but he could feel the Dream pulling at the edges of his consciousness, trying to drag him down. He couldn't fight it, he'd tried everything he could think of before, and he couldn't fight Moriarty either if he had a Dream. He couldn't fight even when he wanted to. John knew a lost cause when he saw one and he gave up, closing his eyes, already gone by the time his body hit the ground.

ooo

"John?" a soft, familiar voice called.

John grumbled, not wanting to wake up. For once, he was sleeping, felt warm, comfortable and safe with the knowledge that someone was looking over him, and he was just not thinking. It was great. Not thinking was a the best feeling in the world. He should just get a lobotomy and live a happier life. He snuggled deeper into the pillow.

When John woke up some time later, it was still early enough to be dark out and he found himself exactly where he had fallen on the ground earlier, the only difference being that he was using Moriarty as a pillow, who in turn was idly letting his fingers play in his short blond hair. John sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and stared at the other man.

"Finally awake? I always thought sleeping like the dead was an expression, but I have to admit you make a good impression of it."

Moriarty chuckled at his dumbfounded expression while John tried to process the chain of events that had led to this.

"I was worried and decided to look over you for the night," Moriarty finally said, probably getting tired of waiting for John to get over his shock. But his shock only grew when he noticed Moriarty had covered him with his own suit vest so he wouldn't be too cold. John shrugged it off.

"There was nothing to worry about," he muttered, looking away.

"You swooned. Right into my arms," the other said cheerfully.

"I don't swoon," John said irately, preferring anger over shame.

"Again, you make a good impression of it. I thought of getting Sebastian to help me put you to bed, but you wouldn't let go of me, so I stayed."

"I don't believe you," John said bluntly.

"You can lie to yourself, Johnny boy," Moriarty replied, leaning into his personal space. "But you needed someone, and I was there."

That had the merit of shutting him up, but he denied it anyway.

"I don't need anyone."

"Are you always that helpless when you Dream? Anyone could do anything to you, and you couldn't do anything about it. Com-ple-tly help-less," Moriarty articulated, his words ending with a gigantic boom that vibrated throughout the building.

John would have wondered if Moriarty had planned that on purpose since he liked the drama so much, but the other man looked just as stunned as him. Not something he had planned then. A minute later, Moran burst through the door, yelling at his boss to get out. Right now! Moriarty was up and about a few seconds later and urged John to hurry.

"The Iceman?" he asked Moran as they made for the front door.

John's heart soared with hope. He would have made a break for it right there, right then, but Moran must have seen it coming because he was keeping a firm hold on his arm and the man was as strong as an ox.

"No, not him," Moran growled. "The Triad from the looks of it. Don't know how they got a whiff of this place, or why they think they can get away with it, but we'd better hurry. They're very determined to storm the whole building and they're using the big guns."

Moriarty growled and switched places with Moran so his second could lead the way out, sweeping every corner and every door with his gun before he moved. He was very thorough. Meanwhile, Moriarty handcuffed his right wrist to John's left.

"Really?" John asked, holding his hand up.

"Can't risk losing you," the other man winked and nicked a gun off of Moran to cover their backs.

John had never felt so utterly useless before. He'd either get out of this by being a burden, or he'd be killed along with Moriarty. Just peachy. Their small group made it to a large stairwell, having smartly avoided the deathtrap that was the elevator, when they were eventually caught up from behind, bullets singing around them. And knives, John soon discovered when one pinned him to the wall by his clothes. He yanked it out and kept it with him. He couldn't throw a knife to save his life, he'd tried but never mastered the skill. It would be good enough for hand to hand combat if things came to that though, or so he thought before Moran confiscated it to block the door handles to the stairwell, creating an efficient barricade between them and their pursuers, but it also meant John was back to being useless and defenseless, so he sulked. Not for long though, because they were ambushed at the next landing.

"They're coming up the stairs too," John muttered, crouching to avoid the onslaught of fire power.

"Run!" Moran ordered when the landing was cleared by more of Moriarty's men who'd just cleared that level. "About time!" Moran growled at the backup team when he walked up to them.

"The whole place is swamped," a ginger kid muttered, looking like he was leading the group by default and not liking it one bit. "We already lost half our men and I haven't heard from the second team. The damn chinks are everywhere."

Moriarty cuffed him over the head with a severe expression.

"What did I say about racial slurs?" he admonished.

"Not to use them, sir," the ginger answered obediently, looking at his feet.

"Can we get a move on?" Moran barked and the men got back in place, cutting short this surreal scene and pushing everyone forward so he could cover their backs since that's where the danger allegedly was now. Moriarty tugged on the handcuff as he ran down this carpeted corridor, accidentally propelling John a few steps in front of him, which gave him just enough time to glimpse the black-clad men lying in wait in the next room with their guns drawn. They'd let Moriarty's henchmen run past without firing, waiting for their target, which was probably Moriarty himself. Smart. John dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks, bringing Moriarty down with him and covering both their heads just as all hell broke loose. Glass, plaster and wood rained down on them, but it didn't last long. Moran who had been right behind them fired back immediately while the backup team backtracked and added their own tuppence to the standoff.

"Up," Moran said, pulling John up by his belt and Moriarty by his shirt as if they weighed nothing, and pushing them forward again. They reached another stairwell, much smaller and devoid of even a simple layer of paint, but which seemed empty for now so they ran down, and down, making John's head spin with all the sharp twists and turns, their flight made awkward by the handcuffs.

John sighed in relief when he ran out of stairs.

"This way," Moran ordered, gesturing for them to follow. He kicked a door open, swiping the dark space with his gun before taking a step in and promptly getting shot, falling where he stood and blocking the door wide open, turning the rest of them into easy pickings in the lighted, narrow corridor. The kind of place where the lights automatically switched on when there was movement.

"Fuck," John cursed when the first shots started aiming for them and one of Moriarty's men fell with a groan.

John snatched the gun out of Moriarty's hand, annoyed his left had been handcuffed as he had to aim with a Moriarty-handicap. But the other man quickly understood his goal and helped him along.

John took aim, and in three quick shots, the lights burst into showers of sparks before plunging them in darkness. He handed the gun back and crawled forward, bringing Moriarty forcefully after him. John searched for Moran's pulse, immediately noticing the lack of blood. He prodded the man's chest and chuckled. "Kevlar. Smart man."

Moran had only had the wind knocked out of him and he would have some impressive bruises if they made it out of this alive but would otherwise be fine, so John took great pleasure in slapping the man into wakefulness again.

"Wakey, wakey Seb," Moriarty cooed, lying hip to shoulder on the floor next to John since the corridor was so narrow.

"Make yourself useful and shoot a couple of rounds out there so they don't come sniffing around," John snapped at him while he slapped Moran extra-hard and was rewarded with a coughing fit.

"Fuck… that hurt," Moran muttered, rubbing his chest and already moving to stand up with John helping him along and then supporting his weight while Moriarty shot at random in the dark, laughing maniacally.

"Barrage fire, boys," Moran grunted at the other men behind them, before pushing John away, already back on his own two feet, which was pretty impressive. "We're heading for the tank."

John frowned, certain they couldn't possibly have a tank at their disposal. This wasn't a fucking battlefield in the middle of the desert, even if it did look a lot like it right now, they were in the middle of London, for crying out loud!

"The boys" ran out the doorway with blazing guns, shooting in all directions while the three of them made their escape and hurried towards what was not a tank but just a car. John looked at it dubiously while Moran opened the passenger door, so his back was turned when Moran received a kick out of nowhere that sent him bouncing off the car. John winced, he might be out cold for good this time.

Turning around when you're handcuffed and uncoordinated can be an awkward affair at the best of times, so John considered it a success when he and Moriarty only bumped into each other twice before coming face to face with their new adversary.

"John?" Moriarty asked calmly.

"Uhm?" John replied, too stunned for words.

"Is that a ninja?"