A/N: Thanks for your comments, they kicked my butt into laying this chapter out faster than I would have thought possible.
Thanks to my friend Abe for her unwavering support.
Now, buckle up, because you're in for one hell of a ride.
"Is that a ninja?" Moriarty asked.
The figure facing them was rather small and dressed all in black, including a hood that hid most of his face, leaving only his dark slanted eyes visible. Honestly, he looked a bit ridiculous and not all that threatening, but he had taken Moran out with just one kick.
"Maybe he's just cold," John replied because he had never seen an actual ninja, hadn't known they existed outside of bad television shows, although he supposed it did make sense the Triad would send in ninjas.
He shouldn't have joked though, this wasn't the time, and Moriarty, who was unbalanced at the best of times, burst into a fit of giggles again. Their adversary took the opportunity to do an impressive, and completely unnecessary, round kick that sent Moriarty's gun flying right out of his hand, vanishing into the dark shadows of the underground parking with a metallic clang. Moriarty wasn't laughing now, he looked positively pissed and even if it seemed the ninja had the upper hand right then, John wouldn't have bet on an easy victory on his part. Besides, John was there too, an unwilling partner, but a partner nonetheless and he was rather good at beating the shit out of people who tried attacking him. But, before he could do anything, the ninja landed three swift blows on Moriarty who sagged down against the car next to Moran and it was all John could do to try defending the other man before he found himself handcuffed to a bloody corpse. If he couldn't move, he was done for. Finally, John managed to sneak in a powerful knee jab when his opponent came too close, which sent him reeling back and John pulled Moriarty up. He didn't look too damaged, stunned mostly.
"You okay?" John asked, glancing warily between the ninja and Moriarty.
The latter nodded, but looked a bit green around the gills. It would have to do, though, because he doubted karate-kid would give them a break.
"You ever watched catch on the telly?" John asked, pushing the other man's head down just in time when he saw another kick coming his way.
The gleam in Moriarty's eyes told him he had and, with the barest of nods, they ran towards the ninja, using their handcuffed arms to bowl him over. Their adversary landed on his back, but was back up on his two feet within seconds, as if he was made of rubber and had just bounced right off the hard concrete floor. John who had planned on just dropping on him, elbow first, took a defensive stance instead, but was hampered once more by the handcuffs.
"Don't suppose you can get these off now?" he muttered, deflecting a couple of swift blows to his side.
The ninja didn't hit all that hard, but he was incredibly fast and always aimed for sensitive spots, pressure points in particular, which explained why Moran was down and why Moriarty was so dazed after only a few light hits.
"Seb's got the key," Moriarty answered, taking a hit in his ribs while he was distracted, glancing at his friend's prone body lying by the car, now behind their attacker.
"Of course he has," John said, covering for Moriarty who was wheezing and not doing a very good job of defending himself.
John caught the ninja's leg mid-kick as he tried to get to Moriarty again, but his attacker gave another twist of his body and escaped John's grip. "Fuck. It's like trying to fight against a demented grasshopper. He's just jumping all over the place."
The ninja then changed tack and tried avoiding John altogether to get to Moriarty, but when he couldn't because the handcuffs kept them close together, he disappeared into the shadows.
"What the hell is he-" John said, freezing when friggin shurikens came flying at them.
Once more, John threw himself to the ground after getting hit by one of the sharp spiky objects in the thigh, but he lacked the momentum to bring his handcuffed partner down with him this time and he heard the other man's pained hiss when he was hit. John pulled the shuriken out, crouched and threw the both of them behind another car for cover. He eyed and prodded the other man quickly for any serious injury but Moriarty batted his hands away.
"You can undress me later if you insist," he said with a mischievous smile. John snorted. "But for now, we have to get rid of that nuisance, he's just buying time for his little friends to get here."
John listened, gunshots were getting louder in the underground space and he wondered if it was Moriarty's backup that had arrived, or the Triad's men lost in the building who had finally made it down. He had to cut this short. Easier said than done, though. John listened, trying to pinpoint the ninja's location when he simply walked out of the shadows again… pulling a short sword, or a very long dagger, from behind his back.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," John growled, and pulled Moriarty out of the confined space between the two cars where they would be too easy to cut down.
"Oh… looks like he decided to take matters in his own hands," Moriarty commented, looking over John's shoulder, as if it was only a mild annoyance and not a truly life-threatening situation, then leaned over to whisper: "The gun is ten steps to your right."
John glanced over to a dark patch that seemed miles away given there was a very sharp blade in the way and no way for him to deflect it without risking serious injury. He'd just have to… avoid it. Fuck, how did he get himself in these crazy situations?
"Now!" John shouted after he threw the shuriken very clumsily towards the ninja's face, hoping it would distract him enough while the two of them lunged to the side, their linked hands coming up to point the gun at the ninja who froze where he stood, arms raised and ready to make mincemeat out of them. Then, for no apparent reason, Moriarty bowled the ninja over, kicking the blade under a car while John was pulled off balance and fell face first against the concrete floor. Moriarty soon joined him there, thrown over by the amazing bouncing ninja who was once more back on his feet, looming over them. John had had enough and took aim at their attacker, pressing the trigger.
It clicked empty.
"Oh, for the love of-" John growled, now understanding why Moriarty had tackled the ninja. "You might fill me in next time."
Moriarty shrugged and pointed out that the ninja was at least swordless.
"Right, well, sorry about this, Jim," John said and all but threw Moriarty at the ninja, distracting him long enough to slip into his space and hit him as hard as he could right under the chin with an upwards thrust with the palm of his hand before he was pulled down by his linked wrist. He saw with satisfaction the hooded head snap back and the eyes glaze over as the ninja fell heavily to the floor.
Not getting up this time, he thought smugly, but just to be sure, he rolled over Moriarty and onto the ninja, straddling him around the waist before hitting him in rapid succession in the solar plexus, throat and nose, deciding that adding the temples might be a bit overkill.
"Alright, that should do it. Up!" he ordered, hefting Moriarty up by the armpit.
They ran to the car, finding the keys still clenched in Moran's hand. It took them way too long to heave the heavy unconscious man into the car but Moriarty refused to leave without him, which John understood. He wouldn't leave without Sherlock if he could help it.
"I'm driving!" John announced triumphantly, holding up his handcuffed left hand.
Moriarty grinned and threw him the keys. John caught them and went to the driver's side while Moriarty went to the passenger's, the metal cuffs abruptly stopping them as they dug painfully into both their skin. They glared at each other before both went in through the passenger's door.
"You'd better find those handcuff keys soon," John muttered.
"Oh, I don't know. I rather like this," Moriarty replied, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Have you forgotten what I did to the ninja already?"
"No?"
"That was with my right hand," John said cooly. "I'm left handed."
It only made Moriarty laugh and John sped towards the exit, bullets digging into the car's body and windshield with loud impacts but never penetrating. A bulletproof car. A tank, of sorts, which had been a good idea given the two sentinels posted there that greeted them with heavy fire as they roared out into the open and onto the street. John drove as fast as he could but he was soon slowed down by the heavy London traffic until Moriarty gave him directions to avoid busy streets and they entered a private garage in the suburbs.
They didn't speak as Moriarty finally uncuffed him after fishing out the key from one of Moran's many, many pockets. They didn't speak as they heaved the heavy man up a set of stairs and onto the too short sofa of a dark living room, nor did they speak while wrestled the man out of his clothes and bullet proof vest. They didn't speak simply because they didn't need to. They worked well as a team, but John shoved that notion to the back of his head and struggled to get back to being a doctor rather than a soldier. As expected, Moran only had a lot of bruising and a lump on his head where he had hit the car, but nothing they needed to worry about.
John finally let himself sag in one of the seats dotting the place and closed his eyes, exhausted beyond belief, until a smile tugged his lips upwards.
"What?" Moriarty asked curiously and John opened his eyes to find that he too had fallen back into one of the chairs, looking more dishevelled and… normal than he'd ever seen the man before.
"I can't believe we fought a ninja," John said and chuckled, because saying it aloud made it seem all the more ludicrous.
"I can't believe you threw me at a ninja," Moriarty shot back, his eyes crinkling with amusement at seeing him falling apart with laughter, but it was just so funny.
"I knew you'd be fine. You're harder to kill than a cockroach."
"I don't know," Moriarty said pensively. "I think I might have been done for this time if you hadn't been there. I'm the brains, not the muscle."
John snorted. That much had been obvious. Then he stiffened when he felt the cushion of his armchair dip.
"Moriarty," he growled warningly at the man half-straddling him.
"Oh, come now, John. You called me Jim, before, don't play coy with me now."
John scowled at him, but he had, hadn't he? In the heat of the action.
"Fine… Back off, Jim."
"But we make such a good team. You've seen it yourself, you can't deny it."
John clenched his jaw. He had seen it, but it didn't mean anything. John had always been good at teaming up, just because that wasn't the case for Moriarty, it didn't mean a damn thing. John pushed him back, not in the mood for his little mind games, when Moriarty yelped in pain, falling back in his own chair, muttering as he pulled his shirt away from his chest and winced.
"I hate ninjas," he declared. "Might have to think about hiring a few though."
John rolled his eyes and tiredly got out of his chair.
"Where's your first aid kit? And please don't tell me you don't have one because that would really be idiotic given your line of work."
"Bathroom."
"Right, lead the way. I might as well patch you up before you bleed out all over the place. I somehow doubt Sleeping Beauty over there will forgive me for that," John said, pointing his thumb back at the prone form of Moran spilling out of the sofa as he snored lightly.
Moriarty chuckled and started up a set of stairs. The house was bigger than he'd imagined and he soon found himself in a too bright, glittering bathroom with a vast shower, even larger bathtub and twin sinks sitting in front of a gilded mirror. Luxurious didn't even start to cover it. It was a bit nauseating in fact. Moriarty retrieved an oversized red mallet from under one of the sink's cupboard and opened it on the counter.
"Ta-daaaa," he said dramatically.
"You're really such a drama queen."
"And you're really cute when you get annoyed. It's so easy to push your buttons, how can I resist?"
"Well, you're going to have to. Shirt off."
"Yes, doctor," Moriarty purred and started unbuttoning his shirt slowly while looking him in the eye with that annoying predatory grin of his.
John couldn't help it, he blushed and turned his back on the infuriating man, busying himself with washing his hands and getting the material he'd need ready. John had never been subjected to such blatant flirting before and it was quite unsettling. He'd gained his own nickname of Three-Continents Watson by being the one flirting outrageously so he'd never been on the receiving end of it. Especially not coming from a man. Even Sherlock had been rather subdued in showing his interest. John's hand came in contact with the cool sleek surface of metal and he refocused on what he was rummaging through to find a very long pair of sharp looking scissors, probably used to cut off clothes, he thought turning it over in his hands, but he could…
John looked into the mirror at Moriarty, now bare chested as he sat without a care on the edge of the bathtub and their eyes met. He had obviously been watching John's every move and followed his every thought.
"You could use those," Moriarty said, his voice low and seductive as if to convince him. "You would know exactly where to plunge them so you reach my heart or you could just go for the carotid artery. Again, easy for someone as skilled as you, and you've seen for yourself that I'm no fighter. I wouldn't stand a chance."
John turned around, scissors still in hand to look him in the eye. There was no fear there. Either he didn't believe John could do it or he really didn't care about dying. John did have the opportunity, the experience and this was as close as a weapon as he had come across since being locked up. He'd had to protect him during the fight against the Triad so he could save his own skin, but that didn't mean they were allies. On the contrary, they were back to square one: a hostage and his captor.
John tightened his grip on the scissors. He could do it, and then take care of Moran, and everything would be over. Could it really be this easy? John took a step towards Moriarty, his muscles pulled taut in anticipation of what he needed to do. The heart or the artery? Just because he had to kill him didn't mean he wanted him to suffer… He was standing over Moriarty now and still, he could see no fear there, he didn't even shift back when the tip of the scissors swung before his eye. John's breath hitched when the other man looked up at him, looking smaller without his blasted designer suit on, bleeding from several cuts where he had been hit by shurikens and even a graze from a gunshot, not to mention all the bruises appearing… Moriarty caught his hand holding the scissors, and John felt the flood of relief and guilt in equal measures flood over him as he thought the decision had been taken out of his hands, but, instead of taking the weapon out of his hand or even turning it away from him, Moriarty pulled him, his hand and the blade closer, needling the sharp tip against his exposed throat.
"Here, John? You can do it, you're so close. Just a little push," Moriarty crooned, applying more pressure on his hand and drawing blood. "Or maybe you'd prefer here?" he asked dragging the scissors down to his heart, uncaring of the red scrape he was leaving along the way and pulling John's hand once more to apply more pressure. "Stabbing me in the heart, how appropriate."
John watched in horrified fascination as the tip of the scissors disappeared into the pale flesh, a small rivulet of blood dripping down his chest and down the metal blade. John snapped out of it when Moriarty's lukewarm blood came in contact with his fingers. He pushed Moriarty back, dropped the scissors and fell before he scrambled back, panting as if he had just ran a marathon.
"You can't do it, can you, Johnny boy?" Moriarty's voice continued, teasing as he walked over to him, looking as forbidding as he ever did now, even half naked and clobbered as he was . "You're not a cold-blooded killer. You can't bring yourself to kill an unarmed, injured man, however much you hate him."
John stared as Moriarty kneeled on the floor next to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear: "But you don't even hate me, do you?"
John squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears and head with his arms, not wanting to see, to hear anything he was saying, because it couldn't be true and he couldn't think straight, he couldn't breath and he thought it might be because he was shouting at him to shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up... And he wasn't crying at his own weakness, because grown men don't cry, he was just shaking, badly, and his throat had tightened up so much he couldn't get a sound out anymore. And grown men certainly didn't let themselves be cuddled by psychopaths so John pushed weakly against Moriarty who was tutting in annoyance at his half-hearted effort and nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, his arms wrapped around him, an unwanted comfort when he felt so lost and out of control.
John didn't know how long he stayed like that, his head bowed, resting against the other man's shoulder, his eyes closed so he could block out the rest of the world, just for a little bit, just for some respite from all the madness that was going on around him, before he had to put on a brave front again.
The hardest part was opening his eyes again, watching as the bleak reality came crashing back down around him and knowing he had to confront Moriarty. Not for the first time, the man surprised John by not rubbing his face into the gaping defects of his personality and instead returned meekly to sit on the bathtub and waited, humming a jaunty little tune. John finally heaved himself up, his limbs feeling heavy and sluggish, his senses dulled. He walked over to the first-aid kit, and tried to focus on being a doctor. Being a doctor was easy, he was good at it and there was no right or wrong, only what had to be done. He washed his hands under the tap's warm water, ignoring why he had to do it again and why the water was red as it splashed against the white porcelain. Then he went to work on his patient: cleaning the wounds, disinfecting, stitching when necessary, bandaging. It was easy work, soothing by its familiarity. The hardest part was ignoring the two dark eyes burning a trail wherever they lingered on him. John was glad to turn away once more to clean up the mess he'd made. He was ready to be locked up wherever Moriarty thought was appropriate and just forget about the whole thing. If only he could wipe his memory like Sherlock.
John closed his eyes at the thought of Sherlock, he would be so disappointed in him.
The muffled tune of Stayin' Alive suddenly rang through the cavernous bathroom. John looked into the mirror to see Moriarty fish it out of his pocket and frown at the screen before taking the call.
"This better be good," he snapped. "Holmes?... Which one?… Are you sure?... Interrogate the others, then get everyone to evacuate the other meat lockers and go to ground… Yes… No, I don't want to risk another incident like tonight."
John had listened carefully at hearing his boyfriend's name, before realizing it could as well mean Mycroft, but being privy to only one side of the conversation, he wasn't exactly sure of what was going on. Moriarty stared at his phone for a moment before replacing it in his trousers and walking over to John, who was too weary to fight him off and didn't even bother facing him, looking at the man's reflection in the mirror instead.
"Go take a shower, love," Moriarty instructed, kissing the back of his head. "I have a few calls to make and I'll bring you some clothes on my way back. It looks like you walked through hell and back."
John was left alone and he finally looked himself in the mirror, having carefully avoided his reflection before. He did look like he had been through hell, and not only because of the state his clothes were in, but because of all the blood he was covered in, most of it not his own. However it was his eyes that scared him the most, he might as well have been looking at a stranger for all the familiarity he found there.
Illusions. Lies. Moriarty's playing his little mind games and you're letting him.
His conscience had definitely taken on Sherlock's voice this time and John cringed at the venom and pure loathing in those words.
But I'm not. Jim's right. I can't just kill him in cold blood. I'm a soldier, not an assassin.
Jim, is it now?
No!
You're disgusting.
John threw a punch at the mirror, glad for the pain and the fractured image that kept him from seeing the stranger's eyes. He was going insane, he truly was.
Get yourself back together, Watson! he ordered himself in his sternest voice, slapping his own cheeks to keep the numbness he had felt earlier from returning. A shower didn't seem like such a bad idea now and he stripped, throwing the ruined clothes in the bin with the medical waste before stepping into the oversized shower to scrub himself clean. The various stings from the soap let him know he'd need a few stitches on his thigh and a sizeable bandage for his knuckles. It had been foolish to hit the mirror, Jim would know…
John exited the shower, not wanting to linger where he felt so vulnerable and cinched a fluffy white towel around his waist, getting to work on healing his own injuries. He was trying to wrap a bandage around his left hand when Jim walked in, a bundle of clothes in his hands. He looked between him and the mirror, and sighed, putting the bundle down before taking his hand and helping him wrap it more firmly.
"Can't leave you for five minutes, can I?" he commented but sounded pleased. John thought he'd at least be annoyed about having to replace his antique mirror. "Here, these should fit, but you're bulkier than me so they might be a bit snug. I'll send Sebastian out for you when wakes."
John wordlessly took the bundle and waited, but Jim obviously had the same boundary issues as Sherlock because he made himself comfortable on the edge of the bathtub again. John sighed and dressed his lower half whilst keeping his towel on, having already forfeited his upper half when Jim walked in without so much as a knock.
"You're going to call Sherlock," Jim said without preamble.
John frowned, puzzled. He'd always offered his call to Sherlock like it was a treat he had to earn. This sounded more like a chore he was expected to do.
"Why?" John asked defensively.
"It looks like Sherly had been very naughty," Jim sing-songed in reply, juggling with one of those simple black phones he seemed to have an endless supply of. "Why don't you ask him why he sent a pack of rabid Triad flunkies after you?"
John blanched.
"He didn't… He wouldn't…"
"My sources say otherwise. Why don't we ask him? Who knows, maybe he'll even be happy to know he didn't kill you."
John took the phone and dialed, hoping he didn't have to deal with Irene on top of everything else. It picked up on the first ring this time, which was encouraging.
"John?" came Sherlock's voice, loud despite its raw edge.
"Sherlock," John said, caressing the syllables he avoided saying the rest of the time, amazed that just the sound of his voice could soothe his anguish like a balm on a burn.
"Thank God," he heard Sherlock say from afar as if he'd been holding the phone away. "I thought… Jesus… John, I'm standing in the flat you were locked in. There were so many bodies everywhere and then I found your jumper in pieces…"
John could just imagine that, but Sherlock was babbling which was very unlike him. Shock maybe? But that wasn't what bothered him most. He glanced at Jim who nodded.
"How can you be there already, Sherlock? It happened not even two hours ago, how could you know I was there?"
The silence at the other end of the line spoke volumes and Jim came closer, his head cocked to the side to hear better.
"Sherlock… Did you sent those people there?" John asked, anger seeping through.
"Yes… But it's not what you think," Sherlock added quickly. "You weren't supposed to be there. I just needed the distraction to access the office! I didn't-"
"A distraction!?" John snapped in disbelief. "Christ, Sherlock! I almost died in there! I can't believe you."
But he did. This was exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would come up with. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was angry, yes. Very angry in fact. But Sherlock had clearly been blaming himself since finding out he had set a bunch of killers loose on him. Jim squeezed his forearm and spun his finger, motioning for him to carry on. John sighed but he wanted to get to the bottom of this too, because Sherlock was not one for making such a monumental mistake.
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock was saying and he really did sound desperate.
"I know," John murmured. "Tell me what happened. How did you get the Triad to do your dirty work for you."
John winced, that had sounded rather harsh but he was still fuming.
"Territorial strife. They wanted a bigger piece of the cake and I knew where they could hit. It just pointed them in the right direction."
"And how did you know about this place? Why didn't you check it out in case I was there?"
Another long silence and then: "Irene."
Well that needed any clarifications, but John almost laughed hysterically when he glanced at Jim and saw his angry expression matching his own.
"I told you not to trust her, Sherlock. But you didn't listen, because you always know better. Damnit Sherlock, that tart wants me out of the picture, and I daresay she wouldn't mind getting Jim out of the picture too. I can't believe you let her manipulate you like that."
"Jim?" Sherlock asked frostily.
John felt like he'd been punched in the gut, remembering the stranger's eyes in the mirror and Sherlock's disgusted voice in his head. He felt too sick to answer, and what was there to say, anyway? He was broken, now. He wasn't any good anymore. He hadn't been able to ensure Sherlock's safety by taking out his enemies when he had the chance. He was a failure.
"John? What has he been doing to you?" Sherlock asked urgently. "John?"
He had to answer. He couldn't let Sherlock worry needlessly.
"Nothing. It's me. I've let you down, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I should have… but I couldn't. I just couldn't."
"John listen to me," Sherlock said rapidly as if he was afraid of being cut off. "Moriarty is a master at manipulation, whatever happened, nothing is your fault. I think you're suffering from the onset of Stockholm Syndrome. Don't listen to him, anything he-"
Jim took the phone away but Sherlock's words were playing on repeat in his mind. He'd read about Stockholm Syndrome, they'd even been briefed about it in the army and studied a case about a captured soldier who'd sympathized with the Talibans before he was retrieved, but that couldn't be happening to him. That happened to the weak-willed, people easily manipulated… John frowned, trying to recall the circumstances in which it could happens and the symptoms displayed but since he'd never thought he'd be concerned… What had Sherlock been about to say? And why had Jim snatched the phone away just at that moment? That only gave credit to Sherlock's theory.
"So, Sherly," he vaguely heard Jim say next to him. "About Irene... any idea what rock she crawled under? I have a few choice words to tell her."