A/N: Okay, so I did say that the last two chapters might be crudely edited, yeah? Well, times that by one hundred for this chapter and the following. I kind of got tired looking at the chapters and even with musical inspiration, I can't seem to focus. John is going to be awfully out of character in this fic. I feel it. Though I might as well say that about every chapter haha!

But yeah. Enjoy the chapter. I might fish out the next, and last one for a while, in a bit. So, half an hour is roughly where that translates into. Thank God I don't have work tomorrow...today (it's 12:14 am here) or I wouldn't even be working on this and fool myself into sleeping.

Paint It Black

Chapter 23 – Alabaster

John POV

"Sherlock you fucking idiot! Stop!"

But it was too late. He was already dashing around the corner. His footsteps got quieter rebounds against the alley walls as he advanced the perpetrator. I would be following him as quickly if my injuries from my previous excursion hadn't protested the movement. My neck felt tight from the blood pulsing in my ears, and my shoulder was throbbing.

Basically, if it wasn't for those two demons, I would be chasing the detective – like usual – and the man he believed to be Moriarty.

The disguiser had the suit, the hair, the same facial structure; which was beyond any rational thought normal. No one should have the exact same characteristics of a specific person. Sure, there was that theory that there were seven people in the world exactly like you, but the odds of them both pursuing crime and meeting in London? If the theory was even right, the odds of it happening were not.

And the damned detective only spoke with him for a few minutes. Minutes. He didn't have enough time to notice all the little quirks that no one could replicate. He didn't notice those keen features like I had the time to when protecting Seth back in the Grime Zones.

And those eyes? The eyes that flickered between Sherlock and me?

They were not the same metallic silver I that struck me immediately.

They were blue if going by the same spectrum of grey I see in Sherlock's eyes.

The man Sherlock was chasing with pure determination – stupid, reckless, scold-worthy determination – was a replica. A paid replica no doubt. Whoever he was, he wasn't Moriarty.

Leaning against the mist-covered brick walls, I ignored the liquid under my soles seeping into my socks. I could care less about that. Something I could save up some paychecks to buy another pair of.

That stupid detective? Sadly, he was one of a kind and practically irreplaceable if my "soul instincts" had anything to say.

Gulps of tainted air filled my lungs as I tried to organize my thoughts. I wasn't going to be able to keep up with Sherlock. There was no way with how my shoulder was reacting and the injuries already sustained from the last fiasco. Even if I tried, he was too far ahead for me to catch up. It would take a miracle or a mental map of all of London to do that, and I lacked both.

There wasn't a way for me to warn him and stop him before he did anything else that could be deemed thoughtless.

"Fuck," I cursed, hitting my head against the wall.

It was all because of that stupid case the inspector had. That one cold case that the inspector resurfaced. It had all the kinks and quivers Sherlock liked in a case. Mystery, unknown variables, and a certain relation to Moriarty.

-FLASHBACK-

Lestrade handed the file to Sherlock as soon as we walked in, thrusting his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, waiting.

Sherlock turned the case file in his hands. He didn't even open it. He narrowed his eyes at the sticker that deigned the victim a name and then rubbed his fingers together after running his hand swiftly over the cover before looking at the inspector suspiciously.

"And old case. Cold at that."

Lestrade nodded, not even surprised in the slightest. I could understand why with how long he has known Sherlock. "20 years old. The kid was found drowned outside the districts of the Grime Zones, though not found near any source of water. The pathologist and medical examiner both said that his stomach lining was practically nonexistent and his lungs were burned through, concluding that-"

"He had drowned on bleach," finished Sherlock.

I tilted my head. "Why not laundry detergent? It performs the same effects, does it not?"

Sherlock hummed to himself. "At that time bleach would be easier to come by and cheaper at that. Effective mass supply." He looked at the inspector. "So more than likely the perpetrators poured bleach into his mouth continuously until the victim drowned. The burns were simply an after effect in case he survived. A precaution."

"That's what the yard concluded at the time as well," Lestrade affirmed.

"So why is he being brought up now? Cold case you said. Something must have been found." As if waiting for the statement, Lestrade pulled out a photo. Unlike the documents in the folder, it was clearly recent. On the picture was a locket with two distinct photos I could know better than anyone.

"The kid had a locket, apparently of his parents, according to those who knew him in the zone. When the yard found him, it was missing as were most of his personal belongings in general.

"Yesterday we were doing rounds in the district and checked through one of the buildings after someone had claimed to hear strange activity. What we found was this," he handed the photo to Sherlock and I glanced at it. "Hanging from a loose pipe. A note was attached that stated "Missing something?""

"Are you sure this is the boy's locket? Could be anyone's."

"Certain, actually. His initials were printed in the back along with his birthdate."

Sherlock hummed to himself for a moment, staring intently at the photo for a moment longer before meeting the inspector's eyes.

"So, not only a clue to the case but to the perpetrator himself."

"But that's not it," the inspector spoke quickly. That seemed to be the theme of the entire case so far. "Inside the locket were a pair of faces. If you look closer at the photo, I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out." He took a deep breath and waited for us to meet his gaze again. "It's you both. Someone had torn out the pictures of the kid's parents and put yours in it with red x's crossing your faces out. A threat."

Sherlock and I exchanged glances.

Moriarty.

"No. You must be mistaken. This couldn't possibly be a threat," Sherlock began to disarm, sending me a look to get ready to leave. "Where was this found precisely?"

"It's down McClellan. Wait," He said. "Why?"

"I think there is something you must have missed, as the note implied."

"I can come-"

"No. No. I'll take the case. You can go, inspector. I'll come to you in less than a day with my results."

The inspector scoffed, and I almost followed. We both knew Sherlock would do no such thing.

Plucking the photo from Sherlock's hands, my fingers briefly touched his wrist.

Suddenly, something akin to sharp jolts of pain shot through me. Clenching my teeth, I heaved a moment with my eyes closed.

When they opened, Sherlock was giving me a glance of legit worry. A small part of leftover hysteria from the pain made me want to laugh at the unorthodox expression.

But I bit the side of my cheek, took a deep breath and swallowed any giggles.

"It's nothing. Just… Just some side effects. Pulled a muscle."

Sherlock didn't look convinced and merely glanced at the photo that was now crumpled in my hands.

"Let's just go," I pushed. "We have a case. Moriarty isn't going to wait all day."

If this was even him at all.

-End Flashback-

And, of course, when we got here we found absolutely nothing! It was clean. Spotless. And that's what set Sherlock off. It was too clean. Not at all in the state an abandoned building should be in if uninhabited for so long.

Shooting my eyes to the heavens, I cursed again and sighed.

Needless to say, everything went "tits up," for lack of better terms, after that. Moriarty spoke and then a man that looked a lot like Moriarty came out, and I would have been fooled as well if it wasn't for the eyes. Sherlock, however, fell for it and went for the chase, ignoring my calls.

And now we were here.

Fuck.

"Funny how a little flurry of snow sets him off, hm?"

Whirling around, I came face to face with Moriarty. His body guard was nowhere to be found this time. Just him. It was too easygoing. Too simple. I found myself scanning the area for a change in shadow, a chuckle, anything. He was open for capture. For advancement. For anything. Call me paranoid but I wasn't too keen on being kidnapped again for more experiments. I still wasn't sure what the first two times did.

"Where is he? Your bodyguard?"

"Sebby?" He shrugged and waved his hand in dismissal. "Dealing with a little pest. Don't worry. He'll join us soon."

I thinned my lips at the thought of who would be this pest. Sherlock? Me?

"The kid. Did you kill him?"

Moriarty shrugged and pulled out a knife – where could it have been? In that suit, it would have to have been built in – , dragging it along the grooves of the brick unevenly. "He bullied me, and I didn't take it too kindly. I never took threats with a grain of salt, I assure you."

He continued to drag the knife closer and closer.

"Is this a part of your game?"

He cocked his head to the side. "Why would I tell you? You're not even playing. You're only a pawn. A piece that I can kick to the side like any other stupid pawn."

I could hear what he was saying easily. It was so easy. He was making conversation voluntarily. A part of me wanted to know why. The other part wished to keep him going.

"But I'm not."

"But you're not," he mused. "You're the one piece that will bring down the entire throne. You'll end Sherlock. The armed queen to the king."

That was not at all what I meant, but if that's how Moriarty saw it, I realized quickly that Sherlock was in more danger than I originally anticipated. Especially with me around.

But that left a vicious circle because I couldn't leave him alone either. That would be as dangerous if not more so. Despite Sherlock's fighting bragging rights, he was only as good as his head led him to be.

"How's those injuries treating you, doctor?"

"Just fine," I said slowly.

"The shoulder?"

"Peachy. Why are you asking?"

"Oh good. Good. Good to hear." Moriarty hummed and slunk forward. "No, I was just curious because I feared you didn't learn your lesson very well. You know, between ruining my one good scientist and then failing the experiments I set aside so lovingly for you."

Something under my skin was being affected by his words. Something that wasn't my blood boiling nor was it some emotion taking over. It was something literally in my skin, and my mind immediately shot to the black serum that Sherlock stated to be dormant.

Could this be it? The serum? If so, then it certainly didn't seem dormant anymore.

"What's the matter? Uncomfortable?"

Ignoring the squirming under my skin, I laughed humorlessly. "Hardly."

"I don't know. It almost seems like you're… failing at this."

Another shot of slithering something except this brought a wave of coldness.

When I lifted my hands to punch Moriarty, I found that I hadn't lifted them at all. They remained at my side. Unmoving. Uncontrolled.

"What did you do?" I gritted out between teeth.

A grin played on the corners of his lips. "Oh, nothing. Don't you remember the black serum? You were supposed to be my pawn. Even with as little in you, the doctor had it set that in case conditions rose to termination, it would be able to attach to your cells and travel to the brain where it would multiply and reproduce."

"It didn't show up in the tests."

"That's because it's a dormant toxin. It doesn't act until I say the magical little words… soldier."

As if he was my superior, my body shot into military form. My injuries screamed in pain at the sudden movement but there was little I could do.

"When I give certain orders, you do what I say."

"You're lying."

"Oh?" And God was that grin just shouting "Is that a dare?"

"John!"

I didn't have to look to know it was Sherlock. He sounded a little out of breath but otherwise fine.

I noticed Moriarty flicking his eyes between mine and his.

"Perfect timing, Sherly! John's a bit out of commission right now. Rather… uncontrollable actually. Could do anything. Fight me…" His eyes flicked metal. "Fight you…"

I caught on immediately.

"Sherlo-!"

"Heel, soldier."

And just like that, I was silenced. I was silenced and I could feel my control falter as if someone stronger came in and took over.

Anger boiled in me. Red hot anger. I was made of sturdier stuff than this. I shouldn't be able to be so easily manipulated into something I'm not! A bloody pet at that!

But underneath the anger was fear, and, for that, I was grateful that my emotions no longer expressed themselves over my countenance, for I knew that Moriarty would give me the grandest grin at knowing he sparked such.